The Logic of Love (and Other Fallacies)
by StoryWriter831
Summary: Trying to cope with their family home as headquarters to Voldemort's new regime, Narcissa, Lucius, and Draco are becoming undone. When a surprise is delivered for the Dark Lord, their world becomes further unhinged when he places his new pet muggle in their care. Will their troubles never end? Or will this perverse little waif become their salvation?
1. Nightmare

I just wanted to write a quick word to let readers know that this story begins about six weeks after Harry, Ron, and Hermione escape from Malfoy Manor in Deathly Hallows. My story isn't going to contain many deviations from canon, but the major one is that my book will take place over the course of a year, after Deathly Hallows and in the duration Harry, Ron, and Hermione will still be looking for Horcruxes (poor them). Don't ask me what the hold up is, I have no idea. This isn't a story for the Trio, they already have theirs, this one's for the Malfoys, whom I love.

Please note the content rating as this story will contain: swearing, adult themes, violence, sex, rape, and scenes of intense torturing.

All comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms, and (fingers crossed) praises are welcome.

Thank you.

**Nightmare**

May 27, 1998

From her position on the the plush sofa Narcissa noticed her husband walk over to the mahogany sideboard to refill his drink. Again. She watched him as he unstoppered the crystal decanter of oak-barreled mead, and poured himself a generous measure of the expensive liquor with pale trembling fingers. He turned around and saw her eyeing him.

"Sure you won't have one, pet?" he asked.

Repressing a sigh, she politely declined his offer and allowed her eyes to return to the book in her lap.

If only her mind could actually focus on the material in front of her. She honestly wasn't even sure what book she had taken from the shelf. She flipped it over to examine the title. "Pure-Blood Power vs. the Muggle Agenda." Oh yes, an old favorite. But, as beloved as it was, it couldn't have any hold over her mind tonight. How could it, when everything was so wrong, and had been for so long?

She wondered if Lucius knew she was pretending to read and then she wondered where her son had gone. It was late so he was probably asleep. They were all fairly ragged after the last months punishments; the Dark Lord had been merciless after that slippery Potter brat had escaped.

She had gone over and over the events of that ill-fated evening and still couldn't work out how it had all gone so horribly awry. Those wretched misfits were safely tied up in the cellar, for Morgana's sake. Wandless, helpless. For a few tentative moments, Narcissa had begun to hope that their redemption was finally within grasp. But, no, of course not. That sort of good fortune belonged to another life now. That beautiful, priceless luck, which had always seemed to envelope them so effortlessly, had abandoned them when Lucius was imprisoned and it had yet to make a reappearance. So Potter had managed to get away, along with the Dark Lord's prisoners.

Merlin's beard, she would never forget the look on his snake face when they had tried to explain to him everything that happened. The magically wrought distortions of his features often masked his expressions, making them difficult to decipher. But the past year, with him using their mansion as his headquarters, she had become so intimately acquainted with him that she was now able, with ease, to decode each subtle twitch and crinkle of mouth and brow.

"Dobby?" he fumed, his cold voice getting icier with every fresh transgression revealed. "And what, pray tell, is a Dobby?"

From the corner of the room where she was applying Dittany to the cuts Draco had sustained from their shattered chandelier, Narcissa watched the Dark Lord's eyes and mouth vacillate between rage and incredulity, as her husband and sister cowered before him on bended knee. In terror, trying to control their shaking voices, they had tried to minimize the vital role the elf had played in assisting Potter's narrow exodus. But, to no avail; he questioned them relentlessly, familiarizing himself with every shameful detail of their failure. It was a humiliation beyond everything, the insult on top of the injury, and they would never live it down. The fact that Bellatrix had probably managed to plant that dagger deep into it's treacherous belly was hardly a consolation. Not at this point. In fact, that dagger was an invaluable Black family heirloom, and now, where ever it was, it was soiled with that filthy creature's blood. The knife was irretrievable and tainted, and the senseless use to which it had been put rankled her. But that was her sister's way. Act first, think later

Narcissa was pulled gently from her dark reverie when, from behind, she heard Bellatrix sauntering stiffly into the sitting room. Her impetuous sister came round the sofa and slowly lowered herself onto it. Bellatrix tried for a futile moment to find a position that might afford her some comfort, then seemed to give up and turned her attention on her brother-in-law.

"Lucius, be a dear and pour us a drink."

Lucius, turned puffy, blood-shot eyes on his wife's sister, and then, acting as though he hadn't heard her, he made his ownpainstaking path to the wide armchair beside the fireplace and gently sat down. Once settled, he delicately swirled the amber liquid around his glass for a moment, looked Bellatrix squarely in the eye, and then raised the mead to his mouth for a casual sip.

Narcissa could practically feel the fury pouring off Bella.

In an effort to placate her, she whipped out her wand and with a few efficient strokes she hurriedly transported a bottle of her sister's favorite wine from the sideboard and conjured her a glass. She tried not to notice the hurt look on Lucius's face as she uncorked the bottle and poured Bellatrix her drink. Bellatrix seemed to realize that Narcissa was trying to head off another argument, so she accepted the drink with a polite response and refrained from berating Lucius for his rudeness.

"How was Mother?" Narcissa asked.

"The same," Bellatrix replied.

"Is her rheumatism better?"

"No," Bellatrix stated. "She wouldn't stop complaining about it either."

Bellatrix related this with complete indifference.

"Did you give her the Copasane Potion?"

"Of course. She sends her thanks for that."

"What else did you talk about?"

Lucius, Bellatrix, Narcissa and Draco had all been under house-arrest for the past six weeks. The Dark Lord had even forbidden her poor son from returning to Hogwarts so he could complete his last few weeks of term. Despite her fear of the Dark Lord, Narcissa had tried to plead with him on Draco's behalf.

"What's the point? His education hasn't done him any good as far as I can see," he had cruelly replied.

However, the Dark Lord had finally granted Narcissa and Bellatrix leave to visit their ailing mother, but Narcissa, much as she longed to see her, longed to leave the house even, hadn't wished to be separated from her husband and son, and had ended up foregoing the pleasure. Bella wouldn't have bothered except Narcissa had nagged her into submission.

"Please, Bella," she had pleaded with her sister. "Mother isn't well. All of her letters are expressing her discomfort and her desire to see us."

"_Her_ discomfort? What about _our_ discomfort? We're the ones being tortured and beaten every few days! Do you think she cares about that? What if she notices I haven't got my wand? I'd die, Cissa! Besides, she's fine. She's just bored."

_Bored and lonely_, thought Narcissa. _And worried about us._

So she had wheedled and whined and cajoled Bella, and assured her over and over that their unobservant mother wouldn't realize she was missing her wand, until she reluctantly agreed to have dinner with her.

Now, half in an effort to discover her mother's real state of health, and half to hear some news of the outside world, Narcissa attempted to draw Bellatrix out of herself. It was like trying to extract intelligence from a mudblood. Impossible.

"What else did you talk about with her?"

"Nothing."

"You must have talked about something. Did she say how our Prewitt cousins are?"

"Not really. She blathered on and on about Diforia's wedding plans, but I managed not to listen to half of it," Bella said, shrugging her shoulders as though to indicate apathy, but her eyes gleaming with a hint of pride.

"Did she say where they were planning to honeymoon?"

"For Morgana's sake, Cissa, I don't know. She probably did say but I don't remember. You're the one who corresponds with them. Don't you know where they're planning to go?"

"I can't remember," she lied.

Lucius glanced up at her from the book he was pretending to read and said, "Lyme. That's what you read from her letter at breakfast a couple of weeks ago, love."

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Remember when we went to Lyme? Those porky German witches in the room next to ours kept us up half the night."

Her husband's gaze was drifting vacantly around the spacious room and he nodded absently.

She sighed and made one more effort.

"Remember those stupid muggles on the beach? We kept using the Deficianado hex to break up those ridiculous castles they were trying mold out of the sand." She effected a strained little laugh. "They gave up after a while and finally dragged their stinky whiny brats off for some ice-cream."

"Yes," Lucius mumbled. He had his eyes on his book though and didn't seem to notice her attempts to reminisce about happier times.

_Would it kill them to_ try, she thought.

All she wanted was an attempt at normalcy. Without their wands, they had become walking, talking, sniping shells.

"I suppose Mother served roast quail," Narcissa said, desperate enough to discuss cuisine.

"Who gives a flying hippogriff what she served, Cissa?" Bellatrix said loudly, frustrated by her sisters inane inquiries.

"Don't raise your voice at my wife," Lucius growled, glaring at Bella with his hard grey eyes.

"Don't you try to tell me what to do Lucius! She's my little sister and I can talk to her anyway I please," Bella instantly retorted.

And they were off.

"Not in this house," Lucius scolded. "I'll remind you for the umpteenth time that you are simply a _guest_ in our home. If you don't show some respect you'll be asked to leave."

"I'm Narcissa's guest. And this is as much her home as it yours."

"I didn't say it was my home. I said that you're a guest in our home, and 'our' includes me, as well as her, therefore, I have as much say over who stays here as she does."

"He didn't say it was his home, Bella," Narcissa interjected, trying to mediate. "Lucius, it wasn't as though she was yelling at me. She's just tired."

No matter how she approached her husband and sister, she couldn't seem to find a way to diminish the animosity that had developed between them. Up to a point she hadn't felt comfortable taking sides, and now it no longer mattered. Bella was stuck here until the Dark Lord lifted their sentence of confinement, because, somehow, it hadn't occurred to him that banishing Bellatrix from his presence would be a worse punishment than imprisoning her in his headquarters.

Narcissa was wearied by their constant bickering, and this one was even more pointless than usual.

"Cissy doesn't want me to leave, do you Cissy?" asked Bellatrix with complete confidence.

Lowering her voice and averting her eyes she softly replied, "Of course, not."

"That means yes," Lucius told Bellatrix emphatically.

Narcissa, rendered graceless from her sore muscles, dragged herself off of the sofa and left the room, and their squabbling, behind.

In keeping with a new ritual, she headed for her son's room. When she reached his door she knocked softly, waited to see if he would reply, and once the silence assured that he wouldn't, let herself in.

As it was almost summer, he had thrown wide the large windows of his bedroom and a soft sweet breeze was caressing the curtains, causing them to flutter out towards her, welcoming her it seemed. She went to the side of his bed and admired his sleeping moon-lit form. Naked from the waist up, he was on his stomach and had his arms and legs spread out starfish style. Her heart ached as she studied him. The prone position he had assumed for sleep was a familiar one to her; he had slept this way since he was a child. His ivory complexion had always made him seem so clean, like a blank slate waiting to be filled. She slowed her breaths till they were as even and deep as his, allowing the gentle rythm of their unhurried existence to soothe her. He was just as perfect and long-limbed as his father she noted with pleasure.

Her son was just about all she derived any pleasure from these days. He was also the source of her greatest anxieties. What would happen to him?

She pulled her wand from the pocket of her gown and, holding it close to his skin so their lights wouldn't wake him, she began breathing mild spells over his body. The Dark Lord had forbidden the Malfoys and Bella from healing their injuries with magic, as it would defeat the purpose of their punishments. But Narcissa didn't care. She wasn't going to let Draco suffer like Lucius and herself. It wasn't his fault their old house-elf had freed the captives and destroyed their credit with the Dark Lord and his other servants. It was bad enough listening to her only child screaming in agony while receiving the Dark Lord's wrath. She couldn't bring herself to think of it as torture. Not when it applied to Draco. If she thought of him being tortured she would go insane.

The spells she was using weren't as strong as some others that she knew, they wouldn't heal him completely. Mostly they promoted the relaxation of muscles and reduced swelling. It would give him a better night's rest and provide a partial easing of his aches throughout the next day. She wished she could do more. What she really wished was that she could somehow scour the skull and snake off of his right arm and send him to Siberia. Or perhaps, because if she was going to indulge in wishful thinking she might as well go all out, invent a spell for time-travel and completely relive the last few years of her life. She knew exactly what she would do differently.

Physically, Draco was almost identical to his father. Over the years he had even adopted Lucius's mannerisms. He held his teacup and saucer with the same grip, crossed his legs like Lucius, and he even pronounced his words with the exact clarity and inflections. It was sweet. But Narcissa knew that, no matter how proficient he might be at emulating his father, he wasn't like Lucius, not really. Her mother-in-law, Rosamunde, had confirmed it to her many times over. But she always made it sound like an accusation, rather than something normal and natural. Rosamunde hadn't approved of Narcissa's child-raising methods; she thought there should be less affection and a lot more discipline.

"You're mollycoddling is turning my grandson into a pampered baby," her hard looks seemed to say whenever she saw Narcissa cuddling Draco.

But Draco was a very sensitive child; she couldn't bear to spank him. And whatever childish pranks he might have got up to, he was always respectful and completely compliant when he was with her. He was a doll really. She didn't care if he couldn't kill somebody or whether he had the stomach for torturing the Dark Lord's less faithful subjects. She just hoped, for _his_ sake, that over time he would be able to grow into his role of a Death Eater since he had yet to demonstrate the same alacrity for it as his father.

The Dark Lord always said that love made people weak, and perhaps that was true, but she couldn't see how she could ever stop loving her son. No matter how vulnerable it made her.

She heard a low tapping on the door and, quickly straightening up, stowed the wand back in her gown.

Lucius pushed the door open and stepped a few paces into their sons bedroom, clutching another full glass of spirits. They looked at one another across the room, so many unspoken things between them, separating them.

If Lucius suspected what she had just been doing he didn't mention it. He wasn't nearly as adept at Occlumency as she was and they both knew it.

"Are you coming to bed soon?" he whispered.

Instead of answering him she crossed the room and put her hand in his. She gazed into his eyes and silently asked, 'When will this nightmare end?'

She knew that if she had said it to him, out loud, he wouldn't have known what to say. So she didn't.

Lucius unlaced his fingers from hers and wrapped his drink-free arm around her, pulled her close to him, and put his forehead against hers. They stood that way for quite a while, trying to support each other.


	2. Scabior and the GingerHaired Thief

**Scabior and the Ginger-Haired Thief**

June 2, 1998

The Greatest Wizard who ever lived despised not knowing things, and for the past two years He'd known that He was missing a vital piece of information. Wonderfully, inexplicably, through very little effort of His own, that situation was beginning to rectify itself. He'd had to do some work though. Once the most pertinent part of the puzzle had fallen into His mind, He'd had to track down the piece. There was still so much He didn't understand. But He wouldn't stop until He knew everything.

It had all began a few weeks ago. Scabior, had come to Malfoy Manor to find Him, and he'd brought Him a present. At first sight, it was the shabbiest gift anyone could ever imagine receiving.

On His arrival to the manor for another meeting, someone told Him that Scabior claimed to possess information that might be of interest to Him. Inwardly He had scoffed. Scabior wasn't exactly known for his intelligence, however, The Greatest Wizard had to concede that the Chief Snatcher could be cunning. He had to be, really, for the work that he did. So, after the meeting, He had gone to the parlour to see what Scabior thought he had to offer.

When He walked into the room two things drew His eye, Scabior, reclining in a plump chair, his leg thrown over the armrest, and off to the side, the bound disheveled figure of a grimy, thick-waisted man that The Greatest Wizard had never seen before. Upon His entrance, Scabior immediately rose, crossed the room to his Master, and bowed to Him. Then he waited to be addressed.

"Well, Scabior," He began, "what have you brought for me?"

"My Lord, this man says 'e 'as information tha' you want. All 'e asks in exchange, is 'is life," Scabior said, his head still bent.

The Greatest Wizard was irritated. What could Scabior possibly mean by this sort of interruption? He should know better. In fact he did know better, and that was the only reason he wasn't on the ground writhing in pain. Stifling a sigh, He gestured Scabior back into his chair and, taking a seat in the chair next to it, He conjured up some wine. Slightly shocked by this honor Scabior poured the wine, first for his Master, then for himself. He took a sip, grunted his appreciation of it's superior quality, and once again waited for Him to speak.

The Most Powerful Wizard was tired. No one understood how hard it was to be Him. He leaned back in His soft chair and drank some of His wine, running His mind through the meeting over which He had just presided. A year after Dumbledore's death and His plans were finally beginning to unfold properly. Since He had regained His power it had been an uphill battle, but, at last, the way forward was looking smooth. Regardless, there was still so much to do, so many new ideas to explore, new paths to tread, new laws to write and invoke for England and all wizard-kind. It was a brave new world and it was up to Him to design and create it all single-handedly and some days this burden weighed heavily on Him.

The muggle world was infiltrating everything. They were everywhere you looked, brazen and oblivious, crowding every scene with their cars and their sky-scrapers. They even polluted the skies with those ludicrous flying machines. Their stench invaded Him. Those filthy breeders were like cockroaches, feasting on refuse, hiding behind the walls of His mind and they made His skin crawl. Since He had come to power His every move had been a step closer toward crushing them. But again and again He had been thwarted by those traitorous wizards and witches who pitied and petted the mudbloods. His blood boiled when He considered it. However, He had decided that dwelling on the past was a fruitless endeavor so He moved His mind forward. He had overcome every obstacle, as was inevitable, and the future was dawning bright and clear before Him.

He looked at the unconscious wizard on the floor. The boozy, sweaty smell of him was wafting toward The Greatest Wizard, as though calling His attention. So He turned to Scabior and said simply, "Tell me."

Scabior had been politely surveying his luxurious surroundings, trying to grant his Master some privacy until he was ready for the meat of it. Once asked however he began his explanations straight away.

"You asked me to ge' a crew up for overseein' some of your d'liveries, over Diagon Alley way. "

His Master nodded to indicate that He understood the reference. He had selected certain dark objects to be...reallocated to His personal collections. The items were to be tracked down from the shops in Knockturn Alley and once collected they were meant to be moved to previously specified locations. He was expecting the merchandise to arrive tomorrow.

Scabior continued. "Me and Puffer was takin' care of it las' night. We was jus' tyin' up loose ends like, makin' sure we 'ad the las' lot. We was in a shop tha's been abandoned for a while, figured it was safe. So we locked the doors and 'eaded over to the Witches Teet Pub for some...libations. We just nipped in an' out for a quickie see, but when we got back we caught 'im," and he gestured to the crusty heap on the floor, "an some others goin' through your valuables. We disarmed 'em quick 'nough, told 'em they was tryin' to nick your personal property. And you know 'ow it is. They was babblin' and blubberin' 'bout 'ow's they didn' know and couldn' we spare 'em as they all got such big families to feed. The usual duff. " He rolled his eyes and scoffed. "But then this one 'ere," and using his black boot he gently toed the crumpled heap on the floor, "starts goin' on and on bout 'ow 'e knew Dumbledore and 'e kept insistin' 'e 'ad some information you'd be wantin' pretty bad. So I asks 'im and 'e said 'e knows 'oo Dumbledore was gettin' all that info'mation off of las' year." Scabior had practically mumbled this last bit while he lowered his eyes to the floor.

The Greatest Wizard studied Scabior's stiff posture. He was obviously scared, as he should be.

What he was speaking of was something that wasn't spoken of. Everybody _knew_, Him, His Death Eaters, members of the Order of the Phoenix, and even certain highly placed Ministry employees. But it was a mystery, something that had no name, rather like Himself, and it was subtle. So subtle, that it had managed to elude even Him. Dumbledore had...something. A spy, or a spell, some secret source of information that he had wielded, quite effectively, against The Greatest Wizard. But no matter how many people He tortured or force fed Veritaserum, no matter how many minds He had plundered, enlightenment had evaded Him.

It had started off slowly, especially that first year when the Ministry and the whole wider wizarding community was denying His return. It was His secret plans being unearthed and blocked. He had _always_ operated with the utmost stealth. What choice did He have? People were unreliable imbeciles that couldn't be trusted. But He had to delegate, His goals would have been insurmountable otherwise. And whenever He did, whenever He had met with them, one on one, privately, in rooms enchanted with the strongest spells of protection, it was as though some unseen...thing had followed him.

He didn't see it that way to begin with, and who would? At first He simply blamed the cretins who called themselves His 'servants', and He was doling out the Cruciatus Curse on them daily. But after a while it became obvious that nothing was really adding up. His traps were being ambushed, His Death Eaters themselves were being captured left and right. He Himself had almost been apprehended... twice!

His most complex plans were utterly overthrown, His unspoken spontaneous ones weren't. He kidnapped key people, tortured them, but whether they were members of Dumbledore's Order or Ministry officials, they all told Him the same thing. Dumbledore. Dumbledore had known. But how did he know? Nobody could tell Him because nobody knew. Dumbledore was keeping a secret.

The Most Powerful Wizard was stymied. He was bloody enraged. He had felt so...powerless. He became unhinged by it for a while there, everyone could see it. Those were dark days. He had grown so paranoid. It was as though Dumbledore had fastened an unseen ghost to His side that was watching and listening to Him everywhere He went. It must have been some magic He didn't know about, but He couldn't see how. There was no magic that He didn't know about. Certainly not something this powerful. He had searched the world over, more than once, gathering secret knowledge, books, powerful objects, spells, everything that mattered in life.

The pinnacle of it had been His house. No one in the world knew that He had His own home. It wasn't grand, like the Malfoys and the Lestranges, but that wasn't what it was meant to be. It was just a little place that He had magically erected for Himself, out the in wilderness. It was located in one of the most isolated places in the whole country and He had put in place every piece of protection that He knew. It was a stronghold. A place for Him to eat and sleep and every other weak human thing that He detested to do, but had to anyway. He utterly loathed to sleep. It was so much like death to Him. He was unconscious, vulnerable, and...resting. The opposite of doing. How anybody could stand it was beyond Him.

One day, after another failed undertaking, He had decided to go home and gather His strength. He always approached the house from the south. He could have just flown in, but sometimes stretching His legs felt good. Suddenly He could feel it, a minute, whisper of a thing. A foreign spell. It's origins were untraceable but He knew it wasn't one of His own. Someone had been there while He was gone. He transformed his body into vapor and began circling the dome of enchantments, probing, prodding, discovering. He found more little detection spells. His only consolation, and it was also the most unnerving thing about it, was that, whoever it had been, they hadn't tried to penetrate any of the barriers. Had some nosy wizard just happened to stumble upon His house and decided to make a quick once-over? It hardly seemed likely. It had taken Him ages to settle down for rest that night; it was a violation unlike any other.

Now He turned to Scabior.

"Did he tell you?"

Scabior shook his head. "'E wouldn't say, my Lord. I tortured 'im a little. But 'e just kept sayin' 'ow I wouldn' believe 'im and 'e wan'ed you and a truth potion. I wouldn' 'ave bothered you with it, my Lord, but if 'e do turn out to be blowin' smoke, I'll make sure 'e gets it good."

"You did the right thing, Scabior," The Most Powerful Wizard offered.

He could practically see relief oozing out his pores. "'Is name's Mundungus Fletcher, Master, and 'e 'as been known in certain circles to be connected with the Order."

"Go ahead and get him up," The Greatest Wizard instructed, getting to His own feet.

Scabior follow suit, setting down his wine and standing up in front of the prisoner. He used his wand to untie him and then he cast a spell to wake him.

The grubby little man lay there blinking for a bit, getting his bearings and then made to stand up. The Greatest Wizard performed a little charm to keep him bent at the knee.

"That's as far up you need to go," He admonished him.

"Yes, sir," he grumbled.

"Well, I understand you have something you'd like to share with me."

The tubby thief rubbed a dirty hand over his face and looked up at the Dark Lord, his eyes widening a little in shock. Every one who looked at him the first time looked surprised, as though the rumors about his face were unbelievable.

"I hear you were fingering my property," He said, wanting to toy with him a little.

"I didn' know, sir. We wouldn' never touched it, Your Lordship, if we'd a known it was your b'longings, I swears it."

"The penalty is death. Did you know that?"

By this time the grungy little pick-pocket was trembling and sweating. Disgusting.

"Please, sir, spare me an' I can tells you somethin'," he whined in a breaking voice.

The Greatest Wizard smiled. He loved it when people were foolish enough to rely on words. It was absolutely idiotic the way scared people seemed to forget the existence of lying.

"If you do offer me something valuable I can certainly agree to spare your life, however, you'll have to convince me," The Most Powerful Wizard warned him.

"You-you wouldn' believe it."

"If I won't believe it then why are you here?" He inquired, his voice getting a bit higher as his patience wore thin.

"It's the truth." And, seeming to decide he had better just get on with it, he began, "It were abou' a year and half ago. It were righ' before Chris'mas and I was jus' released from Azkaban. Got caugh' in a bad job, see. "

**The Thief's Tale:**

November 15, 1996

Dung was in London. He'd been released from Azkaban a few days before and he'd gone to visit his cousin to see if he knew about any good jobs. They'd supped and talked and had a jolly good time. Afterwards, he hadn't wanted to go home. When he was alone he was haunted by the images of his time with the dementors, so instead, he'd headed toward a pub that he knew a few streets down.

It was a dark evening, cold and damp too. He noticed someone walking down the street in front of him. He'd recognize the back of that man anywhere, he'd known Dumbledore for years. He almost called out to him, but for some reason he didn't. For some reason he had followed him. He was a bit put out with Dumbledore truth be told. Dung thought that Dumbledore would try to help him get out of going to prison again, the way he had before. He wasn't trying to spy on him, not really. He was just curious. Dumbledore was dressed like a muggle.

After a bit Dumbledore turned in the gate at a narrow two-story house. Dung saw that the house had been sectioned off to create four seperate flats, two downstairs and two upstairs. Dumbledore headed for the left downstairs flat and once at the door he pulled out a key and let himself in. He couldn't have said why he was doing it but it was all so...odd, the way he was dressed, using a key instead of magic to unlock a door. So Dung decided to take a peek around the house just to see what he could see. He pulled out his wand and cast a disillusionment charm over himself, then he crept toward the back of the house toward a bright window.

Sure enough, Dumbledore was in there. He was with a little girl. Dung looked around and saw what looked like a bedroom. He could see the girl and Dumbledore sitting in two chairs, facing each other, talking. There was a little table beside Dumbledore and it was holding all sorts of bottles. Big ones, little ones, and they were different colors. As Dung watched Dumbledore took a bottle, poured some of it's brown liquid into a glass and then handed it to the girl. She drank it, and then Dumbledore made a note with a quill and parchment. Then he picked up a different bottle and poured something green into the same glass, handed it to her, watched her drink it and then wrote something down. It was a strange scene.

Dung used his wand to open the window, just a sliver, and then snaked a clever little invention called an 'Extendable Ear' into the room so he could hear what they were saying.

"How are you getting along with Mrs. Carrington?" Dumbledore asked the girl as he handed her the glass again. This time it was pink.

She downed it one gulp and shrugged. "Alrigh'. She mos'ly leaves me 'lone."

They were quiet for a moment and then gesturing toward the table she asked, "This all ya got?"

"Yes. But I also have some new spells to try, if you don't mind."

She shrugged again.

"Did you manage to slip away last night?" Dumbledore asked.

She nodded.

The girl was dark-skinned, with short frizzy black hair, bushy eyebrows, puffy red lips, and thick spectacles. Dung thought that she looked about ten years old, maybe eleven.

"Well?" Dumbledore prompted.

She took another glassful from him, this time it was blue, drank it down and said, "'E wen' to Lestranges." She handed him back the glass before continuing. "They was all there. 'E talked to Dolohov 'bout 'ow 'e was plannin' to get the Wakefields up to scratch. Dolohov didn' seem to know. So 'e tortured 'im for a bit. Then 'e wanted to know who Runcorn found for the Scrimgeour job."

When she started speaking, Dung noticed she had shiny little squares of...was it metal?...across her teeth.

"And what did Runcorn say," Dumbledore asked.

"Tha' 'e thought Yaxley'd be bes' for it."

"Yaxley," Dumbledore repeated. His head was bent down over his parchment and he was writing something for a bit.

Looking bored the girl took a small metal box off the dresser beside her chair and pointed it to a corner of the room Dung couldn't see. Suddenly, fast, loud music was filling the room.

"Do you mind, Jane? I'm trying to focus," Dumbledore said.

She pointed the little box again, the music went off, and she set it back down on the dresser. She crossed her arms and slumped down in her chair a little.

Finally, Dumbledore stopped writing, waved his wand over the table and all of the bottles disappeared.  
Then he pointed his wand at the little girl, Jane.

"Is that all you saw?" Dumbledore asked. Dung couldn't have been more surprised as he watched Dumbledore wave his wand at her. A soft purple light shot out of the end of it and hit the girl right in her chest. He had no idea what spell it was, but it must have been harmless. She didn't a bat a lash.

While Dumbledore continued to cast different colored spells at her, stopping now and then to write more stuff down, the girl started talking again.

"I stayed ou' abou' two hours. They wen' over some o' the same stuff, really. 'E wan'ed to know who they fought migh' be spillin' secrets to you an' the Ministry. Weren' no new ideas 'bout it. 'E says fer a while abou' a bill bein' passed by the Ministry for lettin' muggle-borns get more jobs. Then 'e's sayin' abou' the Daily Prophet's new angle. 'Ow they's goin' round sayin' muggles is good as gol'. 'E didn' like a story bout this muggle who saved this little witch 'oo were drownin'."

He cast a spell that shot off a jet of dark blue light at her chest. She giggled.

Dumbledore smiled at her. "Did that one tickle?"

She nodded.

He bent over his parchment again. "What else?"

"Well, then 'e ask MacNair bout some bus'ness wif the giants."

Dumbledore stopped mid-spell, lowered his wand and looked at her hard. "What did he say?"

"'E says the Gurg 'greed to 'is terms."

Dumbledore didn't say anything for a moment. Then he nodded and bent over the parchment again.

"You ain' sprised," she said it like a fact, not a question.

"No, not surprised," he calmly agreed, "just disappointed."

"Yeah," she agreed.

"Any other items on Voldemort's agenda?"

"Uh...," she brought a thin finger to her chin for a moment, "'E brough' up Junior, again."

"Yes, I imagine he's getting quite desperate to get rid of me once and for all. Anything else, Jane?"

She shook her head.

"Are you positive?" he prodded.

She gave him a long hard look.

"Sorry, my dear."

They sat in silence for a bit while he cast more spells at her and made more notes on his paper. After a few minutes he rolled it up and magicked it away. Then he focused on her.

"How's school?"

She shrugged. "'S'okay. You?"

Dumbledore conjured up a tray with some tea and biscuits, then he set down his wand. Jane immediately began to pour some tea for them.

"Hogwarts is quite well, thank you for asking. Did your friend Beth ever tell you why she was so upset?"

Dung was shivering with cold. He listened to them chatting about Jane's life and her little girl problems for a few more minutes and he decided he'd heard enough. He needed a drink, and he needed a think.

What in the name of Merlin's saggy left nut was that?

"You expect me to believe this?" The Most Powerful Wizard asked the man on the floor. He hadn't detected any sense of falsehood while he spoke but it was the most preposterous story He had ever heard.

"Damn," he mumbled to himself, "Forgot to ask for the truth potion."

"Stand up," He commanded.

The little man got laboriously to his feet and The Dark Lord leaned over him and dived into his mind.


	3. Another Present

**Another Present**

June 4, 1998  
1:30 pm

"Oh, my- Is it? It's urinating!" Narcissa exclaimed.

"Holy Hecate," Bellatrix snorted. "That's disgusting."

"Guess she 'as been tied up a while," Scabior said, eyeing the girl bound and gagged on the thick, ornate rug. Bellatrix, Lucius, and Narcissa were looking curses at him, but he couldn't care less. He shrugged indifferently and returned to the Daily Prophet in his hands.

"You don't have to stay," Lucius said, hoping he would leave.

"Yeah, I do. I told you tha'," he said from behind the paper.

"We're perfectly capable of guarding this-this...whatever it is," Lucius tried again.

"Couldn't you move it to the cellar?" asked Narcissa. "This carpet's been in our family for generations."

"Nope. I tol' you to call the Dark Lord, 'alf a hour 'go. Now, you can do tha', or we'll jus' 'ave ta wai' till 'e gets 'ere."

"For this! If we called him for this, he would eviscerate us," Bellatrix sneered, eyeing the body on the floor like it might be a disease.

"'E wan'ed 'er yesterday," he told them. "An' 'e ain' gonna be 'appy she's late."

"What in the hell is it?" Bellatrix asked.

"A present," Scabior replied cryptically.

"I highly doubt he'll consider anything this pathetic a 'present'," Bellatrix said.

"Shoulda seen wha' I brough' 'im a few weeks back," he retorted with an irritating chuckle.

The Malfoys and Bellatrix were highly confused about the child. It was a _child_. They couldn't begin to fathom why the Dark Lord would want it. It was brown-skinned and wearing trousers, for one thing, and for another thing it was...well it was a _child_. They would have gladly retreated back to the third floor of the east wing, the farthest part of the manor from where the Dark Lord usually conducted his business, but they didn't want to leave Scabior alone. Everyone knew he had sticky fingers.

He kept insisting they should call the Dark Lord, but they couldn't really justify it. Not for this...whatever it was supposed to be.  
The Dark Lord didn't seem quite as angry with them of late, and they didn't want to do anything rash, in case they aroused his disapproval again. Scabior said that she was valuable, though he wouldn't tell them _how_, and without a full disclosure they couldn't see why they should put their pure-blood necks on the line for him.

Draco walked into the room, and looking at the figure with a slightly sickened expression asked, "Is it dead?"

"No," answered Bellatrix. "If you watch it for a while you'll notice that it's breathing. And crying."

"And it just relieved itself on the rug," Narcissa supplied pulling her cup of tea to her thin disapproving mouth for a delicate sip.

"Would you like some tea, dear?"

Draco shook his head and took a seat next to his father. He kept looking at the little thing in spite of himself. It's eyes were closed and it was perfectly still save the gentle rise and fall of it's chest. He could see that tears and snot had made shiny trails down one side of it's face. He thought it was female, though he couldn't be sure. It was wearing an over-sized shirt, so the shape of it's figure was masked.

"What is it?" he finally asked.

"A present for the Dark Lord, boy," Scabior told him.

"Don't call him 'boy'," Lucius said.

"Why not?" Scabior asked.

"Because I said so," Lucius replied, his voice ringing with authority.

Scabior slowly lowered his paper and in one languid movement pulled out his wand.

"An' wha' exac'ly are you going to do 'bout it, _Lucius_," he taunted.

Lucius wearily, almost longingly, appraised the wand and didn't answer.

Bella's face was red, but she also refrained from retaliating. She narrowed her eyes, leaned back on the sofa, and began to make a mental list of the curses she could use on him, had she her own wand. She spent a lot of time these days making lists. Lists of what spells she would cast as soon as she got another wand, and lists of the people she would hurt once she got her hands on it. So far, Scabior was at the bottom.

As though he couldn't resist rubbing their faces in it, Scabior used his wand to summon himself some chocolate biscuits off the tray and began to eat.

Through a mouthful he said, "Some of the other Death Eaters are sayin' you lot are pretty damn worthless, bu' I know better. You got a good spread 'ere." He winked at Lucius.

He noticed their faces grow pink and smiled a little to himself. _Good_, he thought. _Bleedin' snobs._ They had always treated him like dirt, and he was delighted by their recent fall from grace. Everyone was.

Bellatrix silently moved him up one of her lists.

Narcissa feebly contemplated pulling out her wand. She was fairly certain that she was more than a match for Scabior, but she really felt that wasn't the point. He was here on an assignment for their master, and she and her family were meant to be in disgrace. The torture and beatings, the suspended state of her husband, son, and sister being wandless, and suffering the insults of their colleagues, even the ones whose blood-lines weren't nearly as pristine as their own. All of these different aspects came to together to create a package. It wasn't as though it could last forever, so Narcissa kept her peace.

After all, The Dark Lord didn't want to kill them. He wanted to preserve as much magical blood as possible. As her family had already pledged their lives to him, let him mark them, he had to consider their intrinsic value when dealing with them. Unlike many of the people who were currently in his service, they could trace their ancestry over centuries. They were perfect representations of every standard he held. Simply put, they were ideal.

The Dark Lord's voice sounded from the door outside the parlour where they were waiting. Scabior immediately dropped his paper and sprang to his feet. The others rose as well, Bellatrix patted her hair a little, nervously, and they all faced the door.

When he entered the room he turned his face to Scabior and the child at his feet first, smiling. He glanced at the rest of them, barely deigning to acknowledge them. He brought his pale long-fingered hands together, gently rubbing them together with relish.

Although he was still smiling his first sentence was a remonstrance. "You're late, Scabior."

Scabior immediately fell to one knee. "My 'poligies, Master. We 'ad to...rearrange our plans, so to speak. We 'ad to bring her in a van."

"A van," the Dark Lord repeated. "Why didn't you just use side-along apparation?"

"We tried, my Lord, but it wouldn' work."

"What do you mean it wouldn't work?"

"We all tried my Lord. Firs' me, then Puffer, and Greyback. None of us could apparate with 'er. Finally we Imperio'd a muggle with a van and 'ad 'im drive us down 'ere. I'm sorry, Master. We got 'er 'ere soon's we could. Then I tol' the Malfoys 'ere to call you but they wouldn'."

The Dark Lord flickered his eyes toward them but didn't say anything. They all sighed in relief.

Those morons couldn't even get her here properly. He should have fetched her himself.

"Well, she's here at last," he replied.

He was in an excellent mood.

After rummaging through the thoughts of that scummy little thief, and then swiftly ending his life, he could only conclude that this little creature, Jane, could at last shed some light on a problem that had been nagging at him for a while. The mystery of how Dumbledore had seemed to divine his every move. He didn't have a complete picture yet. Were the potions she was drinking, and the spells he was casting at her somehow giving her the power to spy on him? And if so, why would he use someone so young and stupid to spy? Why not himself, or at least someone older? And what had Dumbledore meant when he asked her if she had 'slipped away'? Slipped away. He had repeated it to himself a couple of times but couldn't draw any meaning from it.

It had been easy enough for him to track her down, almost ridiculously so. Cloaked by the darkness of night, he had gone to that narrow brick house of the thief's memory and used Legilimancy on two sets of neighbors. The people on the opposite side had only taken up residence of couple of months ago and hadn't a clue who he was looking for. After disposing of them and their snot-nosed brat he had tried the neighbors upstairs. It was an older couple and their minds were well acquainted with the child Jane, her caretaker Mrs. Carrington, and they had even seen Dumbledore coming and going many times. The woman, Mrs. Carrington, had moved to Canada a year ago to be closer to her daughter, and Jane had gone to a girl's home for disadvantaged youth. From that point he had to track down this charitable institution where she was living and that hadn't presented a challenge either. Oh, Dumbledore had been quite remiss in protecting his little charge. More likely he had just been arrogant enough to assume that her existence would never be discovered. The fool!

He was quite eager to question her. But he needed to be careful. He was loathe to appear as though he didn't already know everything. He had considered torturing her, and if it came to that, he wouldn't hesitate. But he had decided to begin with some Veritaserum. After all, it wouldn't be prudent to start damaging her without all of his facts first.

"Get her up and untied," he commanded Scabior.

Scabior did as he was told. He used his wand to untie her ropes, took off the gag, and then tried to pull her into a standing position. The little girl didn't seem able to stay standing, although she did appear to be trying. Growing impatient the Dark Lord told him to set her down in a chair.

He pulled up a chair across from her and examined her.

She was just as odd looking in person as she had been in memory. The first thing he noted was a light blue bruise over the dark skin of her cheek. She wasn't brown exactly, more olive-toned like a Persian person. Perhaps she was a mixture of some sort. Her hair was black, cropped short on top, and the curly texture didn't allow it to lie flat and smooth but rather made it frizz out. Her eyes were some blueish green color and their shape was a little distorted, magnified by the thick, black-framed spectacles she wore. Her face was quite hairy. Her black eyebrows were bushy and they came so close together across her brow that there was no real distinction between them. And on the skin above each side of her upper lip more black hair gave the impression of a thin mustache. Her lips were huge. They were puffy and as deeply red as a pot of poinsettias. Her upper lip was so full that it was shaped in a round unbroken arch. The last things he noticed were her straight nose and the small cleft in her chin. Judging by the fullness of her cheeks and straight lines of her figure he would guess her age to be somewhere around eleven.

She sat there calmly while he took in her appearance. She rubbed some tears off of her face and her little hands were trembling, but other than that she just waited while he assessed her. In fact, he didn't think she seemed very surprised or traumatized to find herself in his company. She was either very brave or very stupid. As she was a muggle, the Dark Lord assumed he could guess which it was.

The Dark Lord stood up and addressed Scabior.

"She has a bruise," he said. He had given the chief snatcher specific instructions about how he wanted her to be handled.

"Tha's Greyback's doin', tha' is. It were all fine, till he decided to start gropin' 'er chest in the van. Then she wen' all wild and started kickin' and bitin'. So me and Puffer threw 'im out the back and we 'ad to tie 'er up. Till then she were as calm as a flobberworm."

The Dark Lord pointed his wand at Scabior and tortured him for a few minutes. Why was everybody always making excuses? He noted, with pleasure, that the child hunched her shoulders over, closed her eyes, and even brought her hands up to cover her ears. After he was finished, he conjured up a fat bag of coins and dismissed him.

Once the snatcher had taken his reward and departed the Dark Lord prepared a cup of tea for Jane. He kept his back to her while he added the cream and sugar, but Bellatrix and the Malfoys had a clear view of him as he added a couple drops of the clear potion to her drink. When he was done he gave it her.

She examined the drink for moment.

_She knows_, he thought.

Wisely she brought it to her lips and they watched as she gulped down a couple of good-sized swallows.

"Fanks," she mumbled as she set the cup down on the table next to her chair. Her voice was more low-pitched than he would have guessed for her age and sex.

He sat down again and looked at her in silence for some moments, waiting for the Veritaserum to completely take effect.

"Tell me your name."

"Jane Wellington," she said. She kept her eyes trained on the window.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Tell me how you met Dumbledore."

She took a deep breath and let it out. She was silent a moment before she answered.

"I were in a 'ome. It were...no good. So I found 'im, Dumbledore, and asks 'im to 'elp me."

"What do you mean you found him?"

"Well, I...I knowed where's 'e were playin' bowlin' every Saturday, see. So, it were at a place close by where I lives then. So I's just takin' the tube there one day. I waited for 'im outside an' then I goes up to 'im an' I says, 'Oy, Mr. Dumbledore. I needs to speaks wif you.' 'E were real polite, ya know. 'E jus' listened while I tol' 'im all bout my bad 'ome an' 'ow I found out bout 'im. 'E asks me where I's livin' and then 'e says 'e needs to fink about it. So I just wen' 'ome that day." She gave a heavy sigh. "I waits an' waits an' then a few weeks later he comes up one evenin'. 'E says 'e'll 'elp. So, that's 'ow we started."

The Dark Lord was quiet a moment processing what she'd said.

"Tell me how you 'found out about him'."

"Well, I were out one day, see. I used to jus' do tha' when I were bored. I likes to just slip away, see."

"No I don't 'see'. What does that mean? 'Slip away'?"

"It wha' I call it."

"What's 'it'?"

"Slippin' away."

"But what is slipping away? What does that mean?"

"It's wha' I do. It's why I'm 'ere ain' it? You knows wha' I was doin' fer Dumbledore. Don' ya?"

"You were spying."

"Righ'. Well, I's callin' it slippin' away', see."

"But how did you spy? How do you do it?"

"Oh, well. It's righ' easy, see. I jus' lie down an do it."

"You just lie down? On a bed or the floor?"

"No, not tha floor. I's got to be comferterable."

"So you lie down...on a bed, make yourself comfortable and then what do you do?"

"I slip away."

"But what does that mean!" It was like trying to decipher a foreign language for Merlin's sake! Was she trying to be so obtuse?

"I don' knows 'ow I do it. I jus' always could, ya know. I fought I were dreamin' when I were little. I jus'," she looked around the room, as though an explanation might be lurking behind some furniture, "I jus' do it. I haf to be, ya know, 'appy. Not 'appy, really, jus' not sad or angry like. I haf to be calm."

The Dark Lord was so confused.

"Well, was Dumbledore giving you the potions and doing the spells to magic you into a calmer state so that you could...do it?"

Do what exactly? What had she done?

For the first time she looked surprised. "You mean you's don' know?"

Damn! He hadn't wanted to come across as ignorant about all of this as he most certainly was. He should have made the Malfoys and Bellatrix leave the room before he started questioning her.

"Know what?"

He was quite shocked when her face crumpled and she began to cry again. "I fought ya knowed!"

"Know what?"

The time for talk was clearly over.

The Dark Lord grabbed her by the back of her black curly hair, snatched her glasses off for good measure, and, just as he had done countless times before, made to plunge into her mind.

SMACK!

It was as though he had tried to ram his brain into something solid. There was a gong resounding inside his skull, and the vibrations were making his hands shake. He sat back down and looked at her.

"I's fought ya knowed," she was really starting to blubber now. "I's- I's- I's impervious to magic!"


	4. Impervious

**Impervious**

June 4, 1998  
2:37 pm

The Dark Lord's head was spinning and he needed to sit down. Oh, yes, it seemed he was already sitting down.

It couldn't be true. It was absolutely outrageous. He had never heard the like. Why would she lie about something so ridiculous? Then he remembered the Veritaserum he had just watched her consume. He thought about the potions the thief had watched her drinking while Dumbledore took notes. The spells he was casting at her. Had he been cataloguing? He remembered Scabior telling him that none of the snatcher's had been able to apparate with her. They had actually brought her here in a van. He had simply chalked it up to their ineptitude. But what about the spells he had seen Dumbledore casting at her? What about the Veritaserum?

At a loss for anything else to do, he threw back his head and laughed long and hard. The Malfoys and Bellatrix joined him.

"Jane," he said. "It won't do to make up such stories. I can easily disprove such a pathetic lie."

She didn't respond. She just sat there with her head in her hands and continued to cry.

He stood up, pointed his wand at her, and cried, "Crucio!"

The light came out and hit her straight in the head the way he had intended it to, but instead of falling to the floor, writhing in agony, she just started to cry harder.

And then the cheeky little brat actually had the audacity to mumble, "I's sorry."

The Malfoys and Bellatrix were completely quiet through this. They were watching the scene evolving before them in stunned disbelief.

The Dark Lord looked down and realized he was still pointing his wand at her and the spell was still pouring into her. It was as though it was simply passing through her. Was it passing through her? He leaned over to see if the light was coming out from behind her, but he couldn't tell from his angle.

He looked down at his wand again and lifted the spell.

He turned to Narcissa.

"Give me your wand," he commanded.

She immediately rose, looking dazed, and handed it to him. He turned to the girl and tried to crucio her with it. The exact same thing happened. The spell came out all blue and shiny and pretty and completely impotent.

Was she a muggle?

"Are you a witch," he asked her.

Instead of answering she shook her head.

He handed Narcissa back her wand and started to pace around her, thinking.

"Bellatrix!"

She jumped out of her chair as though she had been burned. "Yes, My Lord!"

She came to his side, anticipating his command.

To her surprise he handed her his wand and said, "Cast a spell at her."

With a joy-filled face she immediately pointed the wand at her and yelled, "Crucio!"

Nothing.

"Try something else," he said.

"Silencio," she tried.

This spell was also proved to be ineffectual, as the little mudblood kept right on sobbing, loudly.

"I's sorry," she gasped. "I's fought ya knowed!"

"Quiet," he snapped. "Don't speak to me again unless I ask you a direct question! Do you understand me?"

She nodded.

He was pacing again, thinking.

What in the name of Merlin was she? Could this possibly be true? Could such an abomination actually exist? He noticed that Bellatrix and the three Malfoys were all standing up and staring at her.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," he called.

Severus, Yaxley, and Thickness walked into the room. It didn't take but a moment for them to realize something significant was happening. Their Master was pacing as though possessed and the Malfoys and Bellatrix were gazing in shock at some funny looking child who was hunched over crying. None of them were willing to disturb the Dark Lord when he was so clearly agitated, so they moved in a little closer, but not too close, and waited.

The Dark Lord wasn't sure how to proceed. No experience in his life, no urban legend, nothing in any book he'd ever read, had prepared him for such a circumstance as this. This was what Dumbledore had been doing that evening when he had been unknowingly watched by the ex-convict. He had been giving her various potions to drink and trying different spells on her simply to test her with magic. And she had _giggled_ he remembered. One of the spells had _tickled_ her. He wondered which one it had been. That doddering old fool had been studying her. Was Dumbledore fascinated by her? And how had she spied? When he asked her she had said she didn't know how she did it. He would need to explore that further. In fact, he decided, looking at her, he would need to invest some extensive consideration before he made any significant decisions regarding her.

Now, the next thing to be decided was how much to tell his servants. Did they need to know that she had spied on him? She had spied on all of them probably. She had made a mockery of them, of him. But that was in the past. She belonged to him now. He could wield her power, bend it, shape it, use it to achieve his own ends. No matter what the freak turned out to be, she undeniably had power. She had certainly managed to keep him on his toes for at least a year and a half. He thought of Potter. Merlin's beard, was it possible that she could find the wretched boy?

His only misgiving was that if she truly was impervious to all magic, how could he be completely sure that he was controlling her? She apparently had no family. If she did, she wouldn't have been staying in that 'home for disadvantaged youth'. What about that woman she had lived with, Mrs. Carrington? When Dumbledore asked about her, Jane had told him that she mostly left her alone. It didn't sound as though they were close. Well, he would have to put that aside for the time being. He would come up with a solution. He always did. Besides, she seemed utterly terrified of him so she must have a little intelligence. After all, if she had spied on him, and she admitted that she had, she would know perfectly well what he was capable of doing to those who stood in his way.

How many spells had Dumbledore tried on her? He had to admit that Dumbledore had been a very clever wizard, so he had probably tried hundreds, if not more. Had he ever tried the Cruciatus Curse on her? The Dark Lord doubted it. Whatever Dumbledore did he was always honorable about it. He, no doubt, hadn't given her any poisons to drink either. But the Dark Lord had to know. He had to push the boundaries as far as he could; this had always been his way.

"Narcissa, Lucius, Bellatrix," he began, "I want you to bring me every potion you have in this mansion. Every one. And bring some of your darkest objects as well."

"Yes, My Lord," they said. Bellatrix looked as though Christmas had come early.

Then he turned to Severus. "What potions are you carrying? Set anything you have there," he commanded pointing to the largest table in the room.

And so it began. Everything he had planned to do that day was postponed. Within an hour he had all of his Death Eaters gathered and helping him test different types of magic on the little girl. He had instructed Narcissa and Draco sit at a table to the side and write notes on the proceedings.

First he cleared the furniture to the side of the room and had her stand in the middle of it. Then he positioned different people around her and told them to cast spells at her simultaneously. This only served to make her sneeze several times, so apparently when she was inundated with copious amounts of magic it tickled her nose. Next he decided to queue them up in front of her and told them to take turns casting whatever curses they'd like, in turn. They certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Lucius had a plethora of dark objects for them to play with. He had her gaze into a mirror that should have driven her instantly insane. Nothing. He commanded her to handle a whole collection of cursed jewelry and cutlery. Nothing. He had her comb her hair with a brush that should have caused all of it to fall out and make her hands break out in painful boils. Nothing. He sprinkled her with sleeping powder. Nothing. He told her to look inside a book that would have burned out anybody else's eyes. Nothing.

It was all turning out to be fascinating to him. And worrisome as well. Were their others in the world like her, or was she one of a kind? He asked her if she had any family and she told him no, she had been abandoned at an orphanage when she was a baby. That was an eery coincidence. If she ever had children would they be impervious to magic as well? Food for thought.

His Death Eaters didn't know what to make of her either. It was quickly known among them that she was the spy who had been helping Dumbledore track them down and foil their plans. A _muggle_? A _child_? And as it turned out, a _cripple_.

He hadn't known at first, because of her trousers, but when a couple of spells ripped her clothes she started squawking about her leg.

"Please don' 'urt my leg," she had whined.

"Is one of your legs not impervious to magic, child?"

"It ain' a real one, see. Tha spells migh' break it."

"Show me."

Her face flushed but she immediately complied. "It's 'ow Dumbledore really knows I's impervious to magic," she told him while she rolled up the right side of her trousers, unlaced her boot, and showed him a prosthetic limb. "'E wan'ed to 'elp me by 'ealin it. I gots so 'appy. But 'is spells weren' doin' nuffin'. So tha's 'ow 'e figured it."

"How interesting," he had replied sarcastically. "Now take it off." His Death Eaters had chimed in with thier sycophantic guffaws.

He watched with pleasure as her face turned red. She needed a good dose of humiliation. He and his minions needed it as well. A cripple? It was like salt in the wound that was her sorry existence. In fact, everything about her was a slap in his face. She was so young and helpless. She was a muggle, a cripple, and it was as clear to him as the color of her skin that at least one of her parents had been a foreigner. Her grammar was atrocious, she clearly wasn't very bright. This was the spy who had shadowed him for a year and a half?

"In fact, I've been meaning to ask you something," he said, his face alight with an evil grin. "Have you ever seen any of my servants while they were sleeping?"

She nodded.

"Have you watched them eating?"

She nodded again.

"Have you ever seen them using the lavatory?"

Her face got redder and she lowered her head

"Answer the question!"

It was almost imperceptible, but she nodded again. A collective gasp of indignation filled the room.

"You've seen them doing every private thing, haven't you?"

He included himself; not out loud, but he was thinking it. She had probably seen him bathing, eating, sleeping, all the things he hated for people to think that he did. And she had seen it. His nostrils were so small that he couldn't breathe through them while asleep. Every time he woke his pillow was soaked with drool. It was an infuriating thought.

She was crying again.

"Have you ever watched them while they had sex?"

She didn't say anything.

"Answer me!"

"I didn' be watchin'!"

"But you did see them, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"Rowle, Malfoy, take off her clothes."

"No, please! I's sorry! I's sorry! I didn' be watchin'!"

Thorfinn and Lucius exchanged bemused looks for a moment.

"Don't make me tell you again," The Dark Lord said, having to raise his voice to be heard over Jane's pointless calls for mercy.

Rowle looked at Lucius, shrugged and, grinning, headed for Jane. Reluctantly, Lucius, his lip curled in disgust, joined him. She kicked and screamed, she struggled and pleaded. She even bit Rowle on the arm. But after taking turns holding her down, they finally succeeded in undressing her.

Lucius was loathe to touch her. Although the urine he had seen saturating her clothes several hours before had dried by this time, her trousers still reeked of it. But even if he knew she'd just stepped out of the bath he still wouldn't have touched her willingly. For the sake of Merlin, she was a mudblood.

Most of the Death Eaters watched this impromptu show with unrestrained glee, laughing and mocking her pitiful pleas. Severus watched, but didn't seem amused. Draco and Narcissa kept their eyes on the table where they sat in the corner.

On the piece of parchment in front of her, Narcissa wrote, _Make Lucius wash his hands as soon as possible_.

Once stripped, Jane sat on the floor writhing her legs, real and otherwise, trying to find the best position to cover her nudity. She wrapped her arms over her chest, red-faced, sweating from her empty exertions, and sobbing; the embarassment of her fake leg had clearly been forgotten.

"Come, child. What did you expect me to do? Give you a biscuit and a pat on the head?" Cruel laughter filled the room. "This is only fair. Tit for tat, and all of that."

On his parchment, Draco wrote, _No biscuits or pats on the head for naughty mudblood_s.

The Dark Lord walked around her slowly, looking, reveling in her anguish.

"I don't see what you're trying to cover up." More laughter. "You haven't much, you know."

A smattering of pubic hair and two diminutive nubs. Hardly a curve to be seen.

"You have more hair on your face." The hilarity peaked.

He didn't need magic to punish her. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he felt inclined to rise to this challenge. He would have to be creative in order to deal with this abhorrent waif.

"Go sit in the chair."

"Please, gives 'em back!" she sobbed helplessly.

She needed an obedience lesson.

"Macnair!"

The large man stepped up eagerly.

"Slap her."

In retrospect, he should have been more explicit. Macnair leaned over and practically punched off her head. It seemed that her entire bare body flew off the floor and she collapsed, gasping, in a heap.

"Crucio!" The Dark Lord directed his heat at the incompetent man.

Once his anger was spent, he said, "I told you to slap her, you moron, not incapacitate her. She isn't to be irrevocably damaged. By any of you," he told his servants, casting his red eyes around the room, making sure to sweep them all up in this edict. "You're angry. I understand. I'm angry as well.

"Her existence is...shameful, yes...and unprecedented. She is a freak of nature and she has wronged us. But no one is to hurt her without my permission, and anybody who dares to defy me will suffer the consequences. I'm making plans for her. Mudblood she may be, but she's going to become an asset to our cause. Or die," he added for her benefit.

He turned his attention back to the subject of his little speech and examined her. Her eyes were half closed and she was breathing hard. She didn't appear to be bleeding. The side of her face that had recieved the blunt of the blow was red. Now what was he supposed to do?

"Severus," he said wearily. "Do something."

"Yes, My Lord," he obediently replied, going to her side and kneeling.

He gently took one of her dark wrists into his pale hands and placed two of fingers over her pulse, waited, counted, and released it. He drew up an eyelid, inspected her cornea, and then he began to carefully probe the back of her head. She seemed to revive some during these tender ministrations and the Dark Lord breathed an inward sigh of relief. He would have to be more careful in the future.

Severus stood up and, handling her carefully, helped Jane into the chair. With his wand he conjured some chunks of ice and wrapped them up in a handkerchief that he took out of his pocket. The Dark Lord watched as he softly pressed the cold compress to the side of her face.

"She's fine. Right?" he asked hesitantly.

"I believe a good night's rest is in order, my Lord. Some fluids and food wouldn't go amiss, either. When was the last time she ate?"

When was the last time she had eaten?

Perhaps Severus was right. It was getting late and it wasn't as though she going anywhere. She was his now, after all. But where should she sleep? Initially he had planned to lock her in the cellar, but as he looked at her, skinny, naked, trying to hold the ice to her face and cover her nudity at he same time, he was impressed by her fragility.

He told his Death Eaters that he no longer required their presence and one by one they disapparated.

He took Lucius and Narcissa into the foyer to give them his instructions.

"Take her upstairs and give her one of your rooms." He could tell by their faces they hadn't anticipated this. "Keep her close and make sure she's...comfortable. I want her well fed and rested. Give her a bath and something clean to wear. Get rid of that filthy muggle attire. I'll be back tomorrow.

"Heed my words, you aren't simply guarding her, your going to protect her. If she is in any way harmed, if she escapes, I'll make the punishments you've recieved since Potter got away feel like paradise. Don't fail me again. Have I made myself clear?"

They both mumbled, "Yes, my Lord."


	5. It

**It**

June 4th, 1998  
9:53

Lucius was feeling undone. The events of the day had shaken the foundations of his world in ways he had never thought possible. He was nursing another stiff drink and Narcissa was supervising the mudblood while It ate some dinner. He knew he should go to his wife. She deserved this less than he did but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He simply couldn't face up to the picture of that dirty interloper sitting in his family's manor, putting It's saliva on his cutlery, washing It's filth down his drains. He couldn't reconcile himself to the fact that a mudblood would be sleeping between his linens, polluting the air with It's breath, in a room unbearably close to his own. Twisted, that's how he viewed this situation. Perverse.

When he first saw Scabior come into the parlour with that child, bound and draped over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, he had simply been bewildered. It was odd, but not that odd. The Dark Lord was a very clever man, as was widely known, but his intelligence had rendered him a bit...eccentric. Who could understand how his mind worked? Certainly not Lucius. He could readily admit that, although he himself possessed more than adequate amounts of intelligence, he wasn't anywhere near as gifted as a man like the Dark Lord. Even if he couldn't understand what the Dark Lord wanted with It, he knew It must have some significance.

As it began to unfold, as it was revealed that It had some power that allowed It to spy, but even worse, as he had watched It prove to be immune to _magic_, he thought he was going to be sick. How could something this obscene be allowed to exist? He kept waiting for the Dark Lord to order Bellatrix or Macnair to take It outside and slit It's throat. That's what he would have done. To his utmost horror he realized that his master was so intrigued by the abominable creature that he not only was planning on making It into a pet, but he expected Lucius and his family to take care of It for him. He wanted them to give It a bed and a bath. 'Keep her close', he had instructed.

_Why_? Why, in the name of all that was pure and magical, was this happening to him? He had always been a good person. He had dedicated himself, completely, fully, unrestrainedly to preserving the pure-blood idealogies upheld for generations of noble Malfoys. He worshipped his ancestry, he obeyed his parents, he couldn't have made a more respectable marriage, and he did everything in his power to preserve the traditions of his inheritance. Why wasn't it enough? While it was true that England was at last heading in the proper direction, especially since the Dark Lord had finally come into full control, his personal life was going to pieces. This should have been a time for happiness, a place in history for celebration. Instead everything was going to Hades and he was powerless to prevent it.

"Lucius, I need to go to the attic and see if I can find some clothes for It," his wife said. She had pinned her long blonde hair into neat bun and was wrapping a sheer, red scarf around her head to stave off dust.

"The attic?" he asked.

"Yes, the attic. We keep those old clothes up there, remember?"

"Old clothes. You mean my sister's?" he asked in disbelief.

Narcissa was taking this all so calmly. It was laudable how deftly she seemed to glide through every catastrophe. No matter what fresh horrors she was faced with, Cissa just grew more serene.

"No, I'm going to look through those trunks with your Aunt Zipporah's old garments. We'll need a gown for It to sleep in and something for It to wear when the Dark Lord comes to get It," she explained.

"Comes to get It," he repeated. "You think he'll take It someplace else?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course," she replied confidently. "He can't expect It to stay here indefinitely. He just couldn't move It anywhere else tonight, as it's so late."

Narcissa was probably right. It made sense, actually. Since It apparently couldn't be apparated It would have to go by car or train to wherever the Dark Lord would want It to be moved.

"Do you want me to go with you to the attic, to help?"

"No, I want you to help Draco mind It while I find the clothes."

"Where's Bella?"

Cissa finished tying the scarf in place and appraised him with her cool blue eyes before answering him. "Somewhere. I don't know."

Lucius sighed. Of course. She had probably moved to another wing of the house, rather than help them take care of the Dark Lord's new freak. Well, he couldn't say it was an exchange he preferred, but his wife's sister was an acromantula in his pillow these days, so...

Before she had sparked his hope that It would be gone by this time tomorrow he didn't think he could have mustered the strength for such a task. But with the idea that the repugnant little pustule soon would be out of their lives, for good with any luck, he drained his glass of firewhisky and headed to the guest bedroom where It was going to sleep.

He opened the door and saw his son sitting on the farthest side of the room from It, and took a seat beside him.

The room, like everything in their house, was a thing of lavish beauty. It's abundant proportions were furnished with sumptuous pieces of oak chairs, dressers, tables, and an impressive wardrobe, all of which were well polished. Each wooden chair had a soft, generous padding around the arms, seats, and backs and these were encased with intricate needlework depicting tasteful, floral designs. The enormous bed was made up with a delicately embroidered down duvet and sheets so fine and silky they had the smooth, insubstantial texture of water. Every gleaming surface of the splendorous mantlepiece and the tables and dressers supported antique ornaments. The soft purple walls were punctuated with elaborate paintings, each encased with thick, scalloped frames, and these superfluous decorations were interspersed with perfunctory, but equally exquisite, solid silver sconces. The frizzy-haired, bespectacled mudblood was the only thing marring the resplendence of the room.

It was sitting at the breakfast table in the corner of the room, wrapped tightly in a blanket, and It was one of the homeliest things Lucius had ever seen. The side of her face where Macnair had punched her was swollen and turning a dark shade of blue. What were all those shiny things sticking to It's teeth? Was it silver? Perhaps it was some trendy new way muggles displayed their wealth. Something that ludicrous sounded just about right. Idiots. That would be a painful way to get robbed. Then again, this little waif probably didn't have any wealth, so what purpose could something so unattractive possibly serve? He was flummoxed and since he doubted he would ever need to know he put it from his mind.

Lucius noticed It seemed to be having some trouble cutting It's food into bite-sized portions. It was clutching at the blanket, desperate to make sure the precarious covering didn't fall down and expose...what? Lucius wondered. He hadn't seen anything worth seeing when he'd peeled off It's reeking clothes. He was a bit surprised that It seemed so preoccupied with modesty. He'd been told from an early age that muggles were like animals in this regard. In fact, it was commonly known that many of them bred in front of their children. It, however, didn't seem to want to relinquish a centimeter of wrapping, not even to accommodate a hastier consumption of It's supper. It was clearly ravenous. As soon as It managed to spear a piece small enough for It's metal-filled mouth It devoured the food within seconds, making little groans of pleasure with each morsel, all the while desperately hacking off another bite.

Beside him, Draco gave a heavy sigh and slumped down in his chair and crossed his arms. Draco seemed tired these days. Well they were all tired but the change in his son went deeper than a good's night rest. Lucius knew that much. Ever since he'd returned from Azkaban his relationship with Draco had been...strained. Was Draco disappointed in him? Had he felt abandoned when Lucius went to prison? Embarrassed? And to make everything worse, Draco had taken the Dark Mark. Barely sixteen, and he had to take on the responsibilities of a man.

He hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore; Lucius wasn't sure what to think about that. He didn't mind, not really. It would have been...easier, if Draco could have done it, but Lucius's approval of him didn't hinge on an ability to extinguish life. He himself had never killed anybody, not even a muggle, although he didn't really think that muggles counted. He probably would at some point; he just had never been in a situation where it was absolutely necessary. He'd tried to convey to his son that he didn't care about Dumbledore. But speaking so openly about things as arbitrary and schmoozy as feelings wasn't in a Malfoy's nature. All he could do to convey his approval, tacitly, was respect his privacy and treat Draco like a man.

Draco had certainly tested his father's resolve.

One evening, about a week after the Potter fiasco, Lucius and Narcissa had taken some refreshments to the wrought-iron table in their courtyard to enjoy some mild weather. The flowerbeds had been speckled with a few early blooms, the bright colors and gentle perfumes spicing the senses like subtle promises of summer. Lucius used the last rays of the evening sun to read the political commentaries in the Daily Prophet and Narcissa had a brought a bag Giorun seeds, a common ingredient in many of her healing potions, to remove from their hard pods.

Lucius looked up from his paper when he heard the clatter of Draco's boots as he walked across the cobblestones to join them. His face was yellowed and blue, a few scrapes on his arms still slightly oozing, and he was carrying a tumbler full of clear liquid.

"Is that water?" Cissy had asked.

"Scotch," Draco answered, taking a small sip. "Can I borrow your wand, Mother?"

She handed it to him and to their amazement, Draco pulled a pack of Mingo Flubber's Finest Tasting Tobacco out of his pocket and used his mother's wand to light a cigarette.

"Thanks," he said as he gave it back to her, acrid smoke pouring out of his mouth and nose as he spoke. Then he had pulled up a section of the Daily Prophet and proceeded to smoke his cigarette and drink his scotch while he read it.

Lucius had looked at his wife to see what she made of this development. Cissa raised her blonde eyebrows and shifted her slim shoulders slightly upwards as though to say, "What can we do?"

What could they do? Nothing. Draco was almost eighteen and sitting next to them, bruised and battered, Lucius knew that he was grown now.

Two things about it had really bothered him, though.

First, was the fact that Draco was smoking a cigarette. Lucius didn't have a problem with tobacco in and of itself. His own father, may he rest in peace, had often gone to his library to enjoy cigars, but Lucius wasn't over fond of the overwhelming stench of them. He preferred his pipe; not everyday, just on the occasional evening, after a satisfying meal. But cigarettes, lacking the bulk of cigars and the solidity of a pipe, just seemed, in their slender frailty, rather feminine to him. Worse than even that was their ubiquity; everywhere you looked someone had one dangling out of their mouths, which made them common. He had said on many occasions to his wife and son that cigarettes, without dignity or distinction, were the worst medium for tobacco smoking. Draco, apparently didn't care.

The other thing about it that bothered him was the practiced manner with which he was smoking it. He didn't cough or choke, gripped it casually between his long, white middle and index fingers, and tapped it with the pad of his thumb to break off the ashes. Occasionally he released errant wisps of smoke, allowing them to curl upwards where he captured them through his nostrils. Draco noticed his father watching and as though determined to give him a show he formed an O with his lips and puffed out some rings. Lucius kept his eyes on the precarious circles until they evaporated. It was obvious from Draco's nonchalant and skilled consumption that he wasn't a novice. How long had Draco been smoking? For a while it seemed.

Draco interrupted his musings when he got up and went to the bathroom.

Lucius followed him to the doorway and saw that Draco had started running the bath, adjusting the hot and cold taps to achieve a suitable temperature. His mother must have asked him to do it.

"Interesting day," Lucius said, trying to make conversation.

"To say the least," Draco answered, his deep voice echoing off the porcelain and marble surfaces.

"Did you finish 'The Hurricane Spell'?" Lucius asked, referencing a novel he'd recommended Draco read.

"Almost."

Lucius waited to see if his son would start talking about the book with him. He didn't though. He never sought Lucius out anymore, not for anything that wasn't absolutely necessary. He sighed a little. His son had used to pester him with endless questions. He asked him questions about everything: magic, school, he asked Lucius questions about his childhood, he liked to gossip with him. He'd talk about anything he thought might get Lucius's attention. Now, Draco would only speak, with brevity, when he answered questions that Lucius asked him. He was the same way with his mother. It wasn't that he was disrespectful to them, just detached. He could see how much it hurt Narcissa.

"Why don't you add some of those scented oils and a few bubble beads to the tub," Lucius suggested. "That will help cover It's stench, since I doubt It knows how to wash properly."

With the hint of a smile round the corner of his thin lips, Draco pulled the expensive bottles of oils and light pink beads from a niche built into the tiles around the bathtub and poured liberal amounts of each one into the water. A strong aroma filled the lavatory and the water began to foam.

Draco looked at his dad, still smirking, and asked, "That good?"

Laughing a little, he nodded. Then Draco chuckled as well. It sounded nice to Lucius. He hadn't heard his son laughing in ages.

"What's funny," Cissa asked, walking into the room with a small stack of folded clothes. She'd taken the scarf off and released her sleek blond hair again.

_She really is a beauty_, Lucius thought to himself, admiring her slim figure encased in a crimson gown. She always took minute care with her appearance.

"We were just adding a bit of mudblood de-stencher to It's bathwater, love," Lucius replied.

"Excellent idea," she responded with an attractive smile.

The source of their amusement set Its' fork down and came toward them uncertainly. Lucius noticed that It didn't seem to want to look at any of them, but rather, It kept looking around the room.

"Did you have enough to eat?" Cissa asked It.

It pulled a blank look and shrugged It's shoulders.

"That was a 'yes' or 'no' question. Would you like some more food?" Cissa tried again.

It shook Its' head this time.

Draco came out of the bathroom and took some long strides away from the door, giving It a wide berth. Lucius decided he should do so as well and stepped a few paces back to stand next to his son.

Cissa set the pile of clothes on a chair and pulled a long white nightgown from the top of the pile. She held it away from herself, letting it unfold, so she could get a better estimate of it's length.

"Put this on when you're finished washing. This should fit you well enough," she instructed It.

It gazed at the nightgown for a few moments, reaching up to scratch It's head in the interim.

"Fanks," It finally replied, and, taking the lacy gown from Cissa, limped into the bathroom.

When It had the door closed Lucius looked at Narcissa and asked her how she thought they should guard It for the night.

"Should one of us stay in here with It, or do you think locking the door will be enough?"

"I don't know Lucius," she told him wearily. "You decide."

"Well, the Dark Lord said we needed to protect It as well as guard It," Lucius reasoned. "If it comes to protecting It, you're the only one with a wand."

He waited for her to reply. When she didn't, he continued, "Do you think he's worried some other Death Eater will try to come back here to hurt It?"

"Maybe," she said, uncertainly, clasping her thin hands in front of her. "It has caused a lot of damage to us, if It was telling Dumbledore the Dark Lords plans."

"Well, perhaps we should just put some protective charms around the bedroom door and then we can just check on It a few times during the night," he suggested."

"That's fine," she agreed. None of them wanted to spend their night in the same room with It. "You should cast the spells though, Lucius."

He accepted that without a second thought. Malfoy men were the ones who were responsible for the spells of guardianship around the manor, so all three of them knew he was the most skilled in this area.

"Do you want me to take a turn checking It tonight," Draco asked. "I can set my alarm for a certain time."

"That would be good. We can each take a turn," Lucius decided. "Draco, you check It around two, I'll come back around four, and Narcissa, you can perform the last one, around six. Agreed?" he asked, looking back and forth at them. They both nodded their consent to his plan. "Good. That's decided then."

With the plan formed, Lucius headed back to the sitting room for another drink, Draco went to his room, and Narcissa stayed to see It put to bed.

Once Lucius was settled in his high-backed chair beside the cold fireplace, sipping a last drink before bedtime, he thought about Draco laughing with him and volunteering to help. He realized that he missed his son. Maybe he should start making more effort with him. _Perhaps_, he thought, _I'm the one who's withdrawn, not him_. He knew that he was slipping into depression, receding from his family. He was letting them down. But without a wand, what was he? His magic had always been the most distinguishing factor of his existence. Magic superseded his wealth, his bloodline, his nationality, all the things that made him Lucius Malfoy. He felt as though he'd lost a limb...more than that, his purpose for living.

Oh, how he'd loved that wand. That wand had been in his family for generations. It had been passed on to each male heir from deathbeds for the last three centuries. It was the greatest gift each Malfoy could bestow on his son. And now, he would never be able to give it to Draco. The thought of this loss made a steely lump form his throat and his eyes burned. He tried not to think about that wand when he could help it.

These dark thoughts occupied his mind until Narcissa came to tell him It was in bed and he needed to cast the enchantments around the door.


	6. Portrait of a Headmaster

**Portrait of a Headmaster**

June 4th, 1998  
9:15 pm

Severus was fuming.

He was walking swiftly through the empty halls of Hogwarts, making his way toward his office on the seventh floor. His head was swirling in a turmoil of questions and accusations. He absolutely could not believe what he had just witnessed. A _child_. The magnificent, most honourable Dumbledore was using a child to spy on the Dark Lord. Severus so was beside himself with fury and agitation that he walked straight past the gargoyles that guarded his door and then had to turn back when he realized his error.

Once he was up the revolving staircase, he practically sprinted to the portrait of his mentor and only confidante. Dumbledore had his head leaned back, dozing, with his mouth slightly ajar.

"Wake up!"

Dumbledore immediately roused from his slumber, closed his mouth, and sat up looking around in a hazy manner. "Has something happened?"

Severus could only spit two words at him. "Jane. Wellington."

Dumbledore's eyes widened and he adjusted his position, fidgeting, and he began to rub his left hand over the end of the armrest. "He knows about her?"

"He has her," Severus corrected.

Dumbledore started rubbing his thin fingers across his brow as he contemplated this most unpleasant revelation.

"Is she okay?" was his first question.

"Why the hell-! How could you-! I don't even know-!" Severus was blustering incomprehensibly in his anger.

"Severus, calm yourself," Dumbledore chided softly.

"She's a child!"

"She's...not everything that she seems, Severus. I can assure you," Dumbledore said, attempting to soothe him.

"Your saying she isn't a twelve year old girl? Because she certainly looked like one after the Dark Lord had her stripped naked," Severus said, his breath ragged.

Dumbledore's eyes darkened at this.

"Has he hurt her?" Dumbledore asked again. "Or has he restrained himself to humiliating her?"

"Are you saying that she isn't a child?" Severus repeated, refusing to be deterred.

"I'm saying...her eyes are open, Severus," he said simply. "But I need you to help her. Protect her as much as is within your power."

"Oh, that's bloody great," Severus responded, his dark eyes getting deeper. "Sure, why not? I'm already doing everything I can to protect the students of Hogwarts! And gallivanting around the countryside, leaving ancient swords in icy ponds for Potter! And keeping my thoughts secret from the Dark Lord and trying to advise him without giving myself away! Why not just add one more burden to my shoulders, for Christ's sake? I suppose at this point it doesn't matter?

"And, by the way, thanks for telling me about her when I was getting _tortured_ every other day, because the Dark Lord couldn't figure out where you were getting all of your information from and since I was the closest one to you, he just assumed that _I_ must be spilling his secrets! Do you have any idea how close he came to seeing the truth about-about _her_, when he was ripping through my thoughts?"

Dumbledore patiently listened to Severus ranting, allowing him to vent his anger.

"That's exactly why I couldn't tell you and you know it," Dumbledore gently reminded him. Then he asked Severus for a third time, "Has Voldemort hurt her?"

Severus went to his desk and seated himself in the high-backed chair. He conjured himself some tea and then related the afternoon's events to Dumbledore.

"So he told all the other Death Eaters that she wasn't to be harmed without his permission," he finished.

Dumbledore and Severus sat in silence for moment, each engrossed in their private thoughts.

"Does she know about me?" Severus asked, his eyes on the cup of tea he was slowly stirring.

"She knows where you're true allegiances lie, yes. She doesn't know...why."

"Can she help the Dark Lord find Potter?" was his next query.

"I doubt it," was his reply. Not very reassuring, to say the least.

"Are you saying you doubt that she can or you doubt that she will?" Severus asked.

Dumbledore didn't answer for a moment. "She can't find Potter as long as she hasn't seen him. And even if that happens...she knows what's at stake."

"I suppose you filled her head with the same rubbish you've been spouting to me. You told her he was the 'Chosen One'?"

Severus's and Dumbledore's eyes locked in a momentary battle of wills. Severus looked away first. He always did.

"Did you ever give her any poisonous potions?"

"Of course not. I was curious, though."

"How can she-" he couldn't finish.

"Yes. Amazing isn't she," Dumbledore said, smiling a little.

"Amazing," Severus repeated the word, clearly confounded by the idea of her. "How long did it take you to figure out that she's impervious to magic?"

"Well," Dumbledore began, raising his hands in front of his chest and aligning his fingertips. "I discovered that I couldn't apparate with her the first night I met her. I was...baffled by it. But I didn't immediately assume that she was immune to all magic, of course. It was just little things all adding up, to begin with. I only knew for sure when I gave her some potions to help heal her leg.

"She was upset about that. She thought her leg would at last be restored. Poor girl. I, however, was intrigued," Dumbledore explained, his eyes alight with the thrill of it. It was clear to Severus that Dumbledore had been longing to share this with someone...anyone for ages. "I asked her if she would mind me doing a few harmless spells on her. She wasn't opposed to it at all in the beginning. I think magic completely fascinated her. She asked me-," he stopped.

"What?" Severus prompted.

"Well, suffice it to say that I got a bit carried away with it all. I mean she was bored to tears sometimes, so I tried not over tax her patience. But I couldn't put it aside. Not for the life of me. I tried hundreds of spells on her over the two years she was under my care, and hundreds of potions. I always assumed that she would be impervious to everything, but there were certain things I couldn't bring myself to try. I was scared, you see. What if there were exceptions? Other than a few hundred minor hexes and jinxes...well, I could never bring myself to try any curses of course."

Severus laughed in spite of himself.

"Only a few hundred hexes and jinxes?" he said laughing harder.

Dumbledore chuckled sheepishly.

"_Minor_ones," he emphasized.

"And she was fine with it?" Severus asked, his voice heavy with skeptecism.

"For the most part. Like I said, she was just bored by it a lot of the time. But she...trusted me." Dumbledore rubbed his brow again. "She knew I would stop if she wished it."

"If she was so bored why didn't she?"

"Well, she could see how important it was to me. She's...kind-hearted."

"Oh, well, that's wonderful. I wonder if she'll just lay herself down when the Dark Lord tells her he's going to _dissect_ her."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed and he said, "Please don't make such callous jokes about that. I can't bear it."

Severus just shook his head, his greasy black lanks swaying with the motion of it. He could feel his anger with Dumbledore heating his chest and heart again. How could he? She was so...helpless.

"Severus, you have to help her," Dumbledore pleaded with him, his voice deepening with his emotions.

"How?"

"Voldemort trusts you. He trusts your judgement. And he hasn't had to deal with anything in a non-magical manner in years," Dumbledore said urgently, leaning forward in his chair. "Plus, he knows about your muggle upbringing. He'll consult you. You just have to convince him that the benefits of having her spy for him outweigh the ones of hurting her for the sake of experimentation."

"He can't have both?"

"No. She can't spy when she's in any sort of physical pain, or even emotionally overwrought. That's the long and the short of it. As long as Voldemort is convinced of her worth as a tool for helping him investigate his enemies then he'll have to reign in his compulsions to torture or maim her."

Severus, for the hundredth time, thought that Dumbledore was asking too much from him. But he couldn't refrain from trying, though he was loathe to promise Dumbledore this, out of sheer spite. He couldn't pry out of his mind the image of her frail naked body flying into the air after Macnair pounded her. God, what had Dumbledore been thinking?

"How does she do it?"

"Spy? I have no idea, old friend," Dumbledore said, shaking his head a little, clearly flummoxed by the idea of it. "I asked her dozens of questions about it and couldn't make knuts or galleons of it. It's just a unique power that she was born with."

"In addition to being impervious to magic," Severus said.

"Or, perhaps, because of it," Dumbledore said.

Severus gave him a quizzical look. "You think it's connected."

"It's just a theory I began to entertain after I knew her for a while," Dumbledore said, attempting to clarify his meaning, "because she has this...strange ability to detach a cognitive part of herself at will. It's as though she was born with a vital piece of herself...loosened, so to speak. I've often wondered if that hasn't changed her...basic structure, on a minutely physical level, and that somehow prevents magic from having a hold on her."

"Interesting," Severus replied.

_He_was fascinated by her, himself. He'd never once imagined there could be a person in the world who couldn't be affected by magic. It affected everything. Animals, objects, fire, air. Everything. But apparently not this girl. How?

Severus rubbed his temples and forehead. He was exhausted.

"She must be so scared," Dumbledore said quietly.

"And whose fault is that?" Severus snapped.

"You'll try to help her, won't you?" Dumbledore asked again.

"I'll try, Dumbledore. But I don't have as much faith in my abilities as you do. And this is... For the Dark Lord to be presented with something this...young and, a muggle, and she's clearly so ignorant...and her leg! I believe everything about her serves to insence him. I just can't fathom what you were thinking when you decided to allow her to help against The Dark Lord."

"I can't explain all of my reasons to you, Severus. But I can assure you I had a good many of them. Please, just bear in mind that she is more than she appears."

"I'll try to keep it mind. Not so the Dark Lord can see, of course. She just seems so..._stupid_."

Severus saw the barest glimmer of a smile in the late headmaster's eyes. "Good."


	7. Interrogation

I feel like I should post a small warning about this chapter.

I asked my mother to read this chapter for me to proofread it. She's good at these sorts of things, and up until now, she's been enjoying my story. However, with this chapter she said some of the things that I wrote made her really uncomfortable. I asked her several questions about it and she couldn't really articulate an answer. Was it too vulgar? Too graphic? Too Blunt?

I feel the need to draw my readers' attention back to the content rating of this story. It's M, for mature audiences only.

At this point I would like to let readers know that while I'm not going to fill my story with _gratuitous_ violence and sex, I'm certainly not going to shy away from it. J.K. Rowling began her fabulous, rather epic (in my opinion), story when Harry was eleven. Although she did _allude_ to the cruelty and depravity of Voldemort and his equally demented followers, she didn't elucidate them with any vivid word pictures. As my story takes place in his headquarters, I don't think I can really avoid it. In certain places, I plan to use it to illuminate the inner lives, and moral ambiguity, of my borrowed characters.

So if stories that explore the darker sides of human nature make you sick to your stomach, please, find another story to read.

**Interrogation**

June 5th 1998

12:09 pm

The Malfoys lived in the highest recesses of their palatial home. When Abraxas and Rosamunde were alive they had their rooms in the west wing, while Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco occupied the east. This had granted them some much needed privacy and space while they shared their ancestral manor. When both generations were still alive they broke their nightly fast in their separate wings, came together each evening to sup downstairs in the formal dining room, and the noontime dinner could generally go either way, depending on a variety of factors. Since the Dark Lord had commandeered the lowest level of their home, the Malfoys had stopped using the first floor for any of the daily activities that could be classified as living. They now took all of their meals on the third floor in the ample sitting room that adjoined Lucius and Narcissa's bedroom with their son's.

It was a lovely, lofty apartment with a high ceiling, expansive windows, and a soft chromatic harmony. Lucius had asked his wife to fit it up with any decorations she pleased when they returned from their honeymoon, and she had certainly done justice to her privileged upbringing by incorporating a classic refinement fused with modern elegance. Undertaking it with cheerful relish, Cissa had scoured every reputable store from London to Paris, fingering the textiles and matching up fabric swatches with paint samples. Her mother-in-law had generously allowed her to select some articles from the other, less used areas of the manor that she thought might add an old-world touch. Her effort had yielded an airy, pleasant space for the three remaining Malfoys to lounge in a glaucous blend of pearl grays, cool blues, and some hints of pastel green. She had taken almost three years to complete the project, refusing to sacrifice her aesthetic taste in lieu of haste.

This sort of deliberate consideration, Lucius was to learn throughout twenty-one years of matrimony to her, was a defining characteristic of Cissa; it was one of her greatest and most cunning features. She was guarded, pensive, ever diplomatic, and surreptitiously sly. She could be charming, in an understated manner, but she purposefully came across as a bit vacant. Being underestimated was, in her mind, one of the cleverest ways of attaining what you wanted; and this covert method had certainly played its crucial part in catching her husband's eye, when he was young and stupid and hadn't realized what an asset a crafty wife could be. So while many of her acquaintances and more than a few of her family members thought that she was rather simple, Lucius, to his delight and occasionally to his vexation, had learned over time that this was hardly the case.

When Draco had joined them for breakfast that morning his mother and father wished him a happy birthday and Cissa had supplemented her felicitations with a kiss on his cheek. He accepted their well wishes with a stolid demeanor and a terse comment that expressed his pleasure of the presents he had received from them, and went to the buffet to fill his plate with some eggs and toast.

As Lucius and Narcissa had been trapped in their manor for so many weeks and hadn't any access to the shops, Cissa had spent the last few weeks rummaging through every room in the house, gathering up second-hand things that she could reasonably bestow on him in good conscience. It was awful. She had bought a few items for him in the months after Christmas, as she was an avid spender with or without an occasion, but she had planned to procure the bulk of it once he had finished his last term at Hogwarts and he could accompany her to Diagon Alley to pick out what he liked. They had some treasured pieces of jewelry that they had always meant to give him when he reached adulthood, in keeping with their familial traditions. Lucius had gifted him with a beautiful set of cufflinks that his father had given him on his own eighteenth birthday. But, after she had accumulated and wrapped each piece, it only came out to about seventeen presents. Pitiful. The preceding day, before the mudblood had showed up, she was able to hold in every tear, save one, as she had examined the pathetic pile of parcels on her bed. What would Lucius think if he saw her carrying on this way? She removed from her pocket a silk handkerchief with a soft, lacy border and dabbed away the singular, coruscating evidence of her weakness.

She would have liked to attribute her son's abrupt manner to the substantial lack of presents at the foot of his bed when he woke, but at this point he couldn't have cared less. He hardly ever smiled these days or expressed enthusiasm with anything. He was sad, she knew. The suffering she experienced at her inability to lavish him with expensive goods was simply a compounding of her yearning ache that the time for being able pull him into her lap and let him cry to her over his troubles was past. He was only seated across the table from her and he seemed completely out of reach.

Bellatrix now joined Lucius and Narcissa in the sitting room, first poking her head inside to make sure It wasn't with them.

"Where is It?" she asked as she came in and sat beside her sister.

"Locked up in the spare room," Cissa informed her.

"Which one?"

"The purple one," she answered, looking up from a spell book and examining Bella coolly.

Bella had her brown untidy curls pinned up in a lopsided bun at the back of her head, and while her deep brown robes displayed vestiges of prosperity, their outdated couture made Narcissa cringe. Azkaban had depleted the freshness of Bella's skin, leaving it dried out with faint wrinkles webbing out from around her large eyes and creating a pair of deep parentheses on either side of her thin mouth. Her teeth had partially decayed as well, giving some of them a blackish border while others were completely rotted away to gaping stumps. And despite all of Narcissa's initial attempts to fill in the hollows with nourishing meals, she was still emaciated. However, of all the physical evidence of her sister's incarceration, it was the internal changes that detracted most from her beauty. She was restless, forgetful, fierce, unreasonable, self-absorbed, ineffectual in every way that didn't pertain directly to her role as a Death Eater, and completely obsessed with the Dark Lord. In short, wizard's prison had shorn away everything that Cissa had loved about her sister in their youth.

"Sorry, Cissy," Bella said softly, shrugging. She pretended to examine her unkempt fingernails while she went on, "I should have stayed and helped. I know the Dark Lord wouldn't be pleased if He knew. You won't tell Him, will you?"

"I doubt he'll ask," she replied, as though this was all she could offer. He could almost always tell when he was being lied to after all.

"Did It give you any cheek?" she asked.

"No."

"Did He tell you what time He would come back?" Bella inquired casually.

"I told what you he said yesterday," she reminded Bella. It was an asinine question. Other than the weekly meetings that he held almost every Sunday evening at eight, he rarely told anyone where he would be, or when. Narcissa had noticed long ago how he seemed to enjoy keeping everybody guessing, and having them drop everything at a moment's notice to come when he beckoned.

Martha, a stout witch who worked for the Malfoys came in, levitating a large tray laden with cold meats, fruits, and cheeses and set it in the center of the mahogany table. On her way out of the room she passed Rumpa, a small pregnant house-elf, who was on her way in with a pitcher of juice and a big flowery tea pot. This house-elf technically belonged to Druella Black, Narcissa and Bellatrix's mother, but she kindly allowed Narcissa to occasionally borrow her since they had lost Dobby. When Rumpa's offspring was old enough to be separated from her, Druella planned on giving it to her youngest daughter. Narcissa hoped the house-elf's progeny was female. Everyone wanted female house-elves, as they were the ones who continued the line of enchanted slavery when they bred. This was why, in general, female house-elves were treated less roughly than males, even more so when they were pregnant. If too many males were born, then a family's source of free labor would die out and then they had to wait to inherit another one, or sometimes if one pure-blood family had a surplus, they might consent to sell one. They were relatively expensive, especially the females of a procreant age.

When a family's elves had died out, then they would have to resort to paying servants to cook and clean for them. Martha was a witch with a large pack of children to feed, who lived in a nearby village. Not many witches were available as servants as they exacted high wages, so only the richest people could afford them. Lucius had tried to explain to Narcissa the differences between magical and muggle servants.

"Since witches can use magic to acquire basic necessities like food and warmth they don't need the money the way muggles do, so they can ask higher wages," Lucius had told her matter-of-factly.

"But that doesn't make sense," she had insisted. "If they can use magic to obtain what they need then shouldn't we pay them _less_?"

"No, because if we don't give them better compensation for their work then they'll just quit, whereas muggles need the money that they earn to buy everything, so they'll agree to work for less money. From what I hear, they're more submissive like house-elves. They certainly don't give any cheek, as is the tendency of these low-class witches."

She still couldn't understand his reasoning, no matter how he tried to explain it to her. Lucius, like every Malfoy man it seemed, understood every monetary thing, whether it was magical or muggle. It amazed her sometimes, what he knew about the muggle world, based on the knowledge he gained in his pecuniary pursuits.

Narcissa almost wished they could hire one of these docile creatures to do the cooking and cleaning, muggle or not. True, they were closer to animals than people, but for that matter so were house-elves. Martha was annoying. She was a pure-blood witch whose family had squandered all of their wealth a few generations back, which was inexcusable in and of itself, but it also gave her the most meretricious sense of self-importance. She was constantly speaking to them when she should have remained silent. Lucius and Narcissa had discussed replacing her numerous times in the five years that Martha had worked for them, and had even taken out advertisements in the Daily Prophet more than once, endeavoring to secure a suitable substitute, but it had never worked out. So the garrulous, ruddy-faced witch stayed.

As Rumpa and Martha went about setting out and serving their lunch the Malfoys and Bella gathered around the table and tucked in.

Bellatrix made a little sandwich with some crackers, cheese, and sausage and after she'd eaten about half of it, said, "Dolphy isn't feeling well."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Cissa replied. "Is it serious?"

Bella shrugged and said, "I'm pretty sure it's the shivers."

The shivers was the magical equivalent to the muggles' flu, and it was highly potion resistant. Most wizards and witches were afflicted with it at least once a winter.

"How unusual for this time of year," Lucius contributed. "Has Dolphy gone to St. Mungo's to see a healer?"

Martha, who could never hold her tongue for longer than a few minutes chimed in with, "The shivers' goin' round, what I 'ear."

Pretending as though Martha wasn't there, Bellatrix said, "I don't think so. No point, really, is there? It will run its course whether you go to a healer or not. Perhaps he should though. Yesterday he wanted to know if I'd go home and take care of him."

"What did you say?" Narcissa asked.

"I can't go home, as you know perfectly well. The Dark Lord wishes me to remain here," she stated.

"Yes, but, if you asked his leave to go home and take care of your husband, I'm sure he'd allow it," Lucius pointed out.

"You know I can't do that Lucius," she huffed, her chocolate eyes widening with her adamancy. "The Dark Lord needs me more than Dolphy. Besides, he has Lorky to care for him." Lorky was Roldophus's house-elf.

"I'm so glad the weather's warming up, aren't you Lucius?" Cissa said, giving her husband a meaningful look.

"Yes," he answered pithily, understanding what his wife wanted, but the muscles of his long jaw reflexively tightening up with all of his suppressed words.

"Are you going to go outside and ride your broomstick after dinner, dear?" Narcissa asked Draco.

He just shrugged his narrow shoulders and said, "Maybe."

They were silent a while, chewing, drinking, and thinking.

After Martha left the room Bella asked the general company, "What do you think the Dark Lord's going to do with It?"

"I wish he'd kill It," Lucius said.

"Praise Medea," Bella seconded.

"I never imagined something that unnatural could exist," Narcissa offered.

"It's so stupid," Bella said. "I can't believe It ever had the ability to help Dumbledore. It can barely string two words together."

"I agree," Lucius said. "House-elves have a better command of English than It."

Each of them laughed a bit at the accuracy of his observation.

"What are all of those metal things on It's teeth?" Narcissa asked.

"I think I know," Draco said. They all looked at him.

"Some of the mudbloods at Hogwarts had that," he explained. "I think its called bracers, and it's meant to straighten teeth."

"What's the point of having straight teeth if you have to wear that revolting contraption over them? I'd rather my teeth were crooked than have anything that atrocious on them," Narcissa said.

"No, Mum, I think it's only meant to be worn for a while, and then once it comes off, the teeth are straight," Draco clarified.

"What? Straight for how long?" Narcissa asked skeptically.

"Forever, I guess," he said, shrugging again.

"That doesn't make sense," Bella disagreed. "Without a spell, how could it keep them straight once it's off?"

Draco looked around the table and saw that they were all looking at him expectantly.

"I don't know," he said, clearly exasperated. "Who cares anyway?" He put a large piece of chicken into his mouth as though to remind them all what they were meant to be doing.

He was right of course. It was to do with mudbloods, so it wasn't an appropriate thing to discuss at the dinner table anyway.

But after a while Bella brought It up again. "The Dark Lord mentioned some plans for It. I wonder what He meant by that."

"Obviously he's thinking of having It spy for him," Lucius said.

"Yes, but I was wondering on who," she said as she brought her teacup to her thin pale lips.

"On anybody he thinks might harbor oppositional plans or ideas against him, probably," Lucius said, "people in the ministry, perhaps, or even those known to be connected with the Order." He wiped his mouth on his napkin and continued, "In a few weeks the Wizangamot are voting to overturn the Muggle Protection Act, so he may use It to find out how many are planning to oppose it's removal."

"I suppose," she conceded. "It's so creepy. I can't believe It admitted It watched us in the loo."

"Don't use slang, please, Bella," Cissa gently implored.

"Sorry. But does it really matter whether I call it the lavaratory or the loo? It was still watching."

"Perhaps," said Draco, invoking a low pitch to indicate suspense, "It's watching us right now." And he comically cast his eyes around the room.

They laughed a little, but then they all glanced suspiciously around and shivered a bit.

"I hope he punishes the voyeuristic miscreant," Lucius stated simply.

"I hope he lets me do it," Bella added, her eyes alight with sadistic longing.

When the meal was finished Narcissa piled a plate high with food to take to It.

Perhaps in an effort to cancel her negligence of the previous evening, Bellatrix accompanied Narcissa to the spare room to leave the meal.

When they walked in It was lying on the bed fully dressed, staring at the canopy, humming quietly. It sat up after a moment, awkwardly climbed down from the high bed, and, with a slight hobble, came towards the table where they'd set the food and a cup of tepid tea. It didn't seem to want to look directly at them.

It's right eye and cheek were swollen and had turned a nasty shade of dark blue. The dress that Narcissa had given It to wear was black velvet, a bit too loose on Its' petite frame, and the bottom was hanging so low that It had to use a hand to hold the gown up while It walked, to prevent Itself tripping on the hem. It was barefoot, as they had thrown out Its' scuffed boots along with all the other tattered clothes It had been wearing when It arrived yesterday, and the ugly piece of It's fake limb was visible as It walked toward them.

"Can I's be comin' out after I's ated?" It asked.

"No," Bella said, speaking quiet roughly to It. "You can come out when the Dark Lord arrives."

"Please," It implored. "I's not be touchin' anyfing."

"I said no, you ugly little cretin!" Bella practically screamed.

The anger seemed to force It back a bit and the next thing Narcissa knew, one of It's feet was caught on a rug and it had toppled over onto It's backside.

Bella threw back her head and released a loud howl of mirth. Narcissa joined her sister in a milder, more dignified fashion. They left the room and locked the door, leaving It to scramble off the floor as best as It could.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX   
**

Thoughts of the child had kept the Dark Lord up well into the night. At last, he had uncovered the mystery of Dumbledore's secret, and the revelations of the previous day had at turns elated him, when he thought of brandishing her as his own weapon, and then left him weak with accumulated fury. He longed to point his wand at her and torture her until she lost control of every bodily fluid; then he imagined wrapping his long white hands around her scrawny, swarthy neck and squeezing until her engorged lips turned blue. Picturing this manual vulgarity made him feel dirty and he washed his hands every time it permeated him. This was such a beloved aspect of magic to him; he could accomplish everything with a flick of the wrist: cleanly, efficiently, and dispassionately. That such an exception to his magic could exist tortured _him_.

The various ways in which he could use her powers spread before him in a vast expanse of delectability. Annihilating his enemies, tracking down defectors, without having to do any actual tracking himself, he could even have her watch his servants, to test their loyalties, if he liked. But the most critical factor of it all was Potter. He was entertaining high hopes that this most irritating piece of unfinished business could at last be resolved.

He had meditated on these possibilities and come up with a course of action that would synchronously resolve two of his problems.

It was inescapable that he would have to punish her. His servants needed to see her debased at his command, abject both in pain and position. Something mild would probably be all that was safe to attempt. She had said that in order to spy she needed to be comfortable and calm, so if she was too badly damaged it could impair her functionality. Frustrating as it was, the Dark Lord knew that he had to check his punitive impulses if he was going utilize her gift.

This act of inflicting agony and humility would also allow him to discover whether she was able to find Potter for him. He couldn't trust her to tell him the truth about it as she had gone to Dumbledore for help, and most unfortunately he couldn't, as he would have done any other time, simply peruse her thoughts at his leisure. Trying to penetrate her mind had left his own a bit sore. So questioning her while she was being hurt, sobbing and begging for mercy, would be the best way to deduce her real capabilities in regards to that evasive boy.

Her means of living was another irksome problem. Dumbledore had simply left her to live in the care of a muggle without having to worry about her running away. Dumbledore, out of the despicable softness of his heart, wouldn't have hurt the child even if she had decided to quit working for him, however, by now, she would know that the Dark Lord had a separate _modus operandi _altogether. He really thought the safest, most prudent solution would be to have her stay with the Malfoys for the time being, besides, mudblood or no, he wouldn't have any servant of his living with muggles or even living like them. It would be an appropriate way to continue tormenting the Malfoys for their disobedience and utter idiocy in allowing a house-elf to overcome them. It was also convenient as he was always slipping in and out of the manor in the course of conducting his daily business. This arrangement would simultaneously satisfy his need to keep her close and his desire to keep the Malfoys in a necessary state of suspended subjugation.

He arrived at the manor around four and he was so eager to set eyes on her again he went upstairs to fetch her himself. It was clear from their countenance the Malfoys and Bellatrix were astonished to see him coming into their sitting room. He rarely came up here.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Fine, my Lord," Bellatrix answered eagerly. "Cissy and I just went and checked on It a little while ago, and It's just sitting around waiting for You."

"Excellent," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Take me to her."

They led him to the room, he used his wand to unlock the door, and they followed him inside.

She was on the bed. When she saw him enter the room she had to make another graceless climb down, and, her small hands clutching at the lengthy skirt of her black gown, she took a few steps to meet him. She released her skirt, crossed her arms, and stationed her eyes on a painting behind him.

He looked her over. "Did you have a good rest?'

She nodded.

"Good, good," he intoned softly. "Have you had enough to eat?"

She nodded again.

"Come along downstairs then," he told her. "I have potions for you to drink and questions for you to answer."

He had Nagini with him today. She wound lazy circles around the gathered Death Eaters, her soft sounds like so many sibilant portents of death. The Dark Lord put Narcissa and Draco at a table to take notes of the various poisons he had selected for her to drink and he put Severus in charge of dispensing them to her. At first, he hadn't wanted to dilute the deadly concoctions, but after she started retching and even vomiting-she'd quietly murmured, "tastes like dog shit" while wiping her mouth on her velvet sleeve-Severus had convinced him that really, they wouldn't be able to accurately estimate their effects if she kept heaving them up. So he allowed Severus to add small drops of each one to a small glass of water that he kept refilling. Then they were interrupted every twenty minutes or so while she went to relieve herself. It was a slow process.

He had to ask her dozens of questions to erect a precise image of how it was that she spied, how she 'slipped away', as she called it. Despite her limited vocabulary and almost nonexistent syntax he was relentless. It seemed that she spied by lying down on a soft comfortable surface, drew deep breaths until she was completely relaxed, then her mind, or her spirit, some cognitive piece of her was able to leave her body. She could stand outside of herself, she told him, and watch herself lying on the bed. He wanted to know how she got around in this way, did she fly? She _could_ glide through the air, she said, over landscapes high as a bird if she wished, but that wasn't how she usually went as it took so long. She told him that normally she would just visualize who she wanted to find and then she would be instantaneously with them, where ever they were.

"You can find anybody you like?" he had asked.

She shook her head. "I's gots to be seein' 'em first."

"So how did you ever see me?"

"I's seein' some of yer Deaf Eaters, see. Then I's be followin' 'em to you."

How had she seen his Death Eaters? Dumbledore had taken her to Diagon Alley and pointed out people he knew to be connected with the Dark Lord. He then wanted to know how she had found Dumbledore. She told him that when she had slipped away one morning, just for the fun of it apparently, she had followed a man down an alley of London who "were dressed all funny" and this man had led her into the Ministry of Magic. From then on, she said, she often returned to watch the witches and wizards, to admire the Fountain of Magical Brethren, and to fly around with the paper memos.

She told him that she had seen Dumbledore the first time when he had gone to see Toffee.

"Who?"

"You knows. That man 'oo were minister a while back. Mr. Toffee."

"You mean Fudge?" he asked wearily. The Death Eaters couldn't help tittering; each of them were unwillingly enraptured by her ability, but loathe to own it.

She said she liked the looks of Dumbledore. He seemed so kind, so she had followed him to Hogwarts.

"So you liked going to Hogwarts then? You wondered through the common rooms and the classrooms watching the students while they ate, and studied."

She shook her head. "I's only goin' to see Dumbledore talkin' to 'is pictures."

"His pictures?"

"Yeah. In 'is office. 'E be talkin' to 'is pictures."

"I believe, my Lord," Severus interjected, "she's talking about the portraits of the previous headmasters and mistresses that are traditionally hung in the Headmaster's office."

"Is that what you mean?"

She nodded.

This, it seemed, was how she had convinced Dumbledore that she had the power to spy when she went looking for him. She had repeated to him pieces of a conversation she had overheard him having with his portraits.

"Why did you go to Dumbledore in the first place? You said yesterday that you were in a bad home. Tell me what was so bad about it."

She immediately began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing her arms, and kicking the leg of her chair.

"They's was mean," she said quietly.

"How were they mean?"

She lowered her head a bit and softly told him that they had turned her into their slave. Apparently she was made to do all the cleaning and cooking, and had to constantly mind their children as well.

"There was a time," the Dark Lord began, "two summers ago. It was right after the Ministry officials caught my Death Eaters trying to bring me the orb from the Hall of Prophecies. For about three months, every thing was going smoothly; all of my plans were being carried out with barely any interference from Dumbledore, his Order, or the ministry. Why? Had you stopped spying?"

She hesitated a moment and then slowly nodded.

"I want you to tell me why you stopped spying."

Jane reached up and began to gently pull the hair on the back of her head. She started kicking the leg of her chair, gently, rhythmically. He could see she didn't want to tell him.

"I-," she started and then paused. "I were too sad, see."

"Why?" he asked her. "Why were you so sad?"

She mumbled something.

"What did you say?" he pressed her.

"I's sayin' that my friend be dyin'." She crossed her arms and he watched as a tear rolled down her cheek.

"Who? Who was your friend?"

She sniffed loudly and then swiped her sleeve under her nose.

"It be Sirius."

Bellatrix whooped with self-satisfied jubilation. Everyone present knew why this news had made her so pleased, and a few of them laughed aloud at her happiness. She had inadvertently given her master a respite by killing off that blood-traitor cousin of hers.

"How many other members of the Order did you meet?"

She shrugged and wiped another tear off of her face. "Jus' 'im."

He asked her if she lived at headquarters and she told him no, Dumbledore hadn't wanted her to see anybody other than himself and Sirius. Which the Dark Lord thought made complete sense. She said that she had lived close to Grimmauld Place and that Sirius would often apparate directly to her, acting as a go-between for her and Dumbledore.

Who had she lived with? Another old woman like Mrs. Carrington, a widow and a muggle named Mrs. Churchstreet, but only for about seven months. Mrs. Churchstreet had gone to America, and then she'd lived with yet another elderly woman by the name of Ms. O'Bryan for eight months. This irish person was currently residing, she believed, in Australia. The Dark Lord noticed a pattern and though he refrained from saying it aloud; he could clearly see that Dumbledore hadn't wanted Jane to live with anybody for too long; he hadn't wanted her to establish close emotional ties with anybody that he, the Dark Lord, could then use to hurt or control her. It had been a wise move on Dumbledore's part.

Next he asked for more particulars about her spying. Could she stay out of her body for as long as she liked? No, she said, it varied in length. If she grew too hungry, or tired, or even if she needed to use the lavatory, her body it seemed would bring her back to herself. She also told him that being touched by any living thing, even an animal, would bring her instantly back.

Extracting all this information from her, and then sifting through her near incomprehensible language in order to extrapolate the meaning, had taken him nearly two hours. Severus had since finished feeding her all the poisons and the Dark Lord had begun to cast an assortment of spells at her while he concluded his interrogation. Once he decided he was done questioning her, he took her and his Death Eaters off guard when two long thin ropes flew from the tip of his wand and wrapped themselves tightly around her wrists and ankles.

With the ease and skill of a conductor flourishing his baton, the Dark Lord soon had Jane turned around in her chair and tied to it with her bottom in the air. He flipped her skirt up and, with a couple of strategically placed cuts, her knickers fell in pieces to the floor. It was a consolation to him that even if he couldn't kill or torture her with magic, not directly, he still had the ability to manipulate her with it.

Like a flock of vultures circling a cadaverous feast, the assembled servants had risen from their seats with obscene excitement, and began to pace around the mudblood with a focused energy. They immediately grew heady with the prospect of enticing violence and were soon laughing, mocking her pleas for mercy, and passing around bottles of the Malfoys' finest wines. The Dark Lord watched them with pleasure, enjoying their enjoyment.

With a few exceptions, the Dark Lord knew that their love of carnage bound his servants to him with a more intimate embrace than the snake and skull with which he had marked them. They all parroted his lofty ideals of blood purity with a sycophantic dedication, but honestly, it was the love power that marked them, deeply.

He knew their vices and fetishes like the back of Nagini. All of their secret urges and desires were laid transparent before him through their eyes. Therefore he wasn't a bit surprised when a few of his servants, with more pedophilic passions, made to the rear of his new spy, to steal dissolute glances at the rose colored entrance of her young sex. (_Untried_? he wondered. Food for thought.) He let them look at the forbidden fruit, saw the dream in their eyes of stuffing her mouth with a cloth, pulling a pillowcase over her head, and enjoying the rest of her flimsy not-yet ripe body. He had made it clear to them all that she wasn't to be touched, so he let them fantasize for a few more moments. After all, when he was through giving them a show, these servants would most likely just take themselves to a park or to a playground to pluck up whichever adolescent animal caught their fancy and take it home to enjoy it in whatever way they pleased. Many of them were beginning to do this on a regular basis, the Dark Lord knew.

He was creating a world for them in which they could play. He was carving out some breathing space where they could safely indulge their whims of people-shaped slaves with plenty of extra room for the bodies to pile up. Without the interference of the Ministry, or that pesky Dumbledore, the muggles of England would soon be crawling on hands and knees, wearing shackles and collars, in sweet submission like the dogs that they were. If his servants had tastes that ran toward bestiality so be it, as long as there were no more abominable half-bloods being born. The Dark Lord was planning to implement some solid laws to abolish these distasteful practices for good within the next few months.

The Dark Lord had put in quite a bit of consideration about how he was going to inflict this pain and degradation on his spy. Other than deciding how to punish her, he had to think about who would be the safest person to distribute it. He knew perfectly well that most of them would be willing to dispatch this assignment with alacrity, especially Bellatrix. But the Dark Lord was beginning to see that this was what made her, and many of them, so unsuitable for the job.

He was beginning to see that this was what made Bellatrix unsuitable for many jobs. Her dedication was commendable, but her zeal was her undoing. He knew why this was the case, of course, as it was so obvious. It was because she was a woman. Women had too many feelings and that's why they were meant to stay home and take of their children. When she first came to his attention, he was impressed by the wide knowledge and strength of her curses, the swiftness of her reflexes, and her articulate expression of her beliefs. However, it was growing clear to him that her emotional excesses for their cause were clouding her judgment.

Macnair was the next person he had considered, because he was one of the rare wizards who dealt in pain and death without a wand. Ultimately, the Dark Lord had decided that he was too brutal; he was too practiced at breaking flesh and bone, and the Dark Lord doubted he could be trusted to restrain himself to simply beat on it.

He had momentarily thought about asking Severus to do it. Unlike Bellatrix, Macnair, and most of the other Death Eaters, Severus wasn't fond of violence for the sake of it. He could dole it out, when necessary, but he wasn't possessed of a torrid need to administer it for pleasure. In this respect he was a good candidate for the job, but the Dark Lord had eventually checked him off the potential list as well. He thought that Severus might consider this task beneath him, and as he was currently residing high in the Dark Lord's good graces, he had decided to grant him a reprieve.

Finally, after all this deliberation, he had decided on:

"Nott."

Theodore Nott stepped out of the assembly and took his place next to his master.

Nott was of a steady disposition, and like Severus, he seemed to consider the deliverance of pain to be a duty, rather than a predilection.

The Dark Lord used his wand to sever and summon a long twine of soft cord which dangled from the drapes that framed the high windows of the parlor. Then he transfigured it from silk to leather. Severus, who had been standing close by, now came forward and addressed him.

"My Lord, I wonder if this leather strap is suitable for the punishment you have in mind."

The Dark Lord took Severus by the arm, steered him toward a corner, and with a lowered voice said, "I don't wish to cause irreversible harm to her, Severus. Do you think this whip will suffice?"

"I think, my Lord, it will exceed your expectations. The leather will most certainly break her skin."

"I know she can't be healed with magic, but even some cuts will heal themselves. Eventually."

"No my Lord," he began explaining, "this would score her skin too deeply and that could result in a dangerous and potentially fatal amount of blood loss. Even if she does survive the event, the wounds will fester. Then, if you wish her to live, she'll have to be taken to a hospital. A muggle hospital. "The Dark Lord's lip curled at this unappetizing prospect. "I think this might be what you have in mind." And pulling out his own wand, Severus transformed the leather whip into a stout wooden board with a thick handle.

Severus smacked the board across the palm of his hand, examining it, and said, "My father used to beat me with one of these. He called it his 'magical quiet-maker.'" Then he looked at the Dark Lord and added, "It was the only attempt I ever saw that brute make at irony." Severus refrained from telling the Dark Lord that his father's board was riddled with holes, which reduced air resistance, and made for a swifter and much more painful impact. And a polka-dotted bum.

The Dark Lord, having been privy to something like this before, knew that Severus was sometimes prone to these mawkish musings. Weren't they all?

"This should be safe to hit her with for…thirty minutes?"

Severus frowned a little. "Better make it twenty, just to be on the safe side."

The Dark Lord nodded and said, "It's good to know there are a few people I can always rely on to tell me the truth, Severus."

"It's an honor, my Lord," Severus answered, knowing this compliment was the closest the Dark Lord could ever come to saying, "Thank you."

The Dark Lord handed the hefty paddle to Nott and told him to wait for his signal to begin.

He walked around the chair until he was facing his tragic little spy. Her face was incandescent with her distress and fruitless struggles, while her eyes and nose ran profusely. He noticed her glasses had slipped off her face and lay on the floor. They had suffered a crack from the landing. She was softly sobbing and whispering, "Please, please, please. I's sorry, please, I's so sorry. Please don't hurts me, please." It was heartening to hear her begging him for leniency. He summoned her glasses from the floor, repaired them, and decided to pocket them for the time being. After all, they would just fall off again if he were to put them back on her.

"Now then," the room fell silent, "I'm going to ask you something my hairy little mudblood. If the answer is yes, I'll make sure the pain stops. However, keep in mind that if you do say yes, you had better be able to deliver."

He took a few steps back and asked, "Have you ever seen Harry Potter?"

He noted the time from a silver clock on the Malfoy's mantlepiece, looked toward Nott and nodded, signaling him to start spanking.


	8. Unexpected Offerings

**Unexpected Offerings**

**June 11th 1998**

The Dark Lord had been forced to conclude that she didn't know how to find Potter. She had writhed and screamed and cried and panted through the mild but merciless beating and had all the while adamantly maintained that she had never seen him. The thought that she could have lied niggled at the deepest recesses of his mind. He thought he could always distinguish between the veracious and the fallacious, but with this fey child he had lost all confidence. With her, the Dark Lord found himself hovering beside a deep precipice of uncertainty; he wanted to push her into this chasm, to end her, but somehow this idea made him feel weak. She was young and grossly ignorant; it made him possessed of a voracious need to keep her and use her the way Dumbledore had. He wanted to surpass the damage she had caused him by erecting his own towering tally of ways in which she served him. She had to cancel out her debts to him, fill them in, with a sizable application of her power. He was so unnerved by her existence, the only thing he could fathom doing was keeping her chained at his feet.

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"If we ask him that, he might think that we're saying that we don't want to keep It for him," Narcissa said, as she replaced her teacup in it's saucer.

The Malfoys and Bella were in the sitting room having their afternoon tea. The Dark Lord was in their spare room with Jane, doing Merlin knew what with her. He had come upstairs several times since her spanking and shut himself in with her over the last week. He usually stayed with her for a couple of hours. He must not have been saying or doing anything to distress her, much to their mutual disappointment, because whenever they took her supper afterwards she was always calm.

She was asking them every time they took her food when they would let her out of the room. Never. Of course.

"Yes, but if I suggested it as though it were in Its best interest, don't you think that would make him see that we're not trying to shirk our duties to him?" Lucius asked.

His wife just gently shook her head and Draco and Bella remained silent. None of them knew what to do. The longer the Dark Lord left her in their care the more hopeless they grew of him ever finding another situation for her. They knew why he had chosen them, singled them out for this feculent task. When the Dark Lord addressed them any more, he didn't ask, he _told_. He was so disgusted with the Malfoys that he barely looked at them, and all four of them had been banned from attending his weekly meetings. Narcissa and Draco didn't mind at all, but it worried Lucius, and broke Bella's black heart.

There was a soft knock on the door of the sitting room. Bemused at this unexpected request for entry, Lucius called, "Come in."

The Malfoys couldn't have been more astonished or pleased when Severus opened the door, and came to them. They all, save Bellatrix, stood to show deference to his presence and they noticed that there was a large box, levitating a few feet off the ground, which crossed the room with him in his wake.

"Severus, this is a pleasant surprise," Lucius said with feeling.

Lucius would never forget his gratitude to his old friend for taking care of his son, so thoroughly, while he had been locked up in Azkaban. Nor would his wife, it seemed, as she went around the table and greeted him with a chaste kiss on his cheek. Lucius saw the pasty pallor of his cheeks flush slightly pink at this profusion of gladness on Narcissa's part.

"Please have some tea with us, Severus," she asked him quietly and with genuine warmth.

Severus thanked them and took a seat around the large square table. He put the box on the floor behind his chair and since he didn't mention it, neither did they. They soon had their honored guest equipped with tea, sandwiches, biscuits, and all the tasty treats they could offer. Severus accepted it all with a stolid politeness.

Severus tried to assess their well-being based on their appearances. Bellatrix looked as wild and disheveled as she always did since her escape from Azkaban but Severus didn't really care about her. He moved his attention to the Malfoys. Draco was fairly well turned out in some gray robes and his hair was at least combed. Other than that, the skin around his eyes was tinged with blue tones, perhaps indicative of lack of rest, and his eyes were a little bloodshot. Lucius wasn't looking anywhere near as good in person. His cheeks were flushed and his face was bloated, from his excessive drinking Severus thought, and though his hair wasn't as untamed as his sister-in-law's, still seemed as though it could use a good brushing. Narcissa, on the other hand, looked as gorgeous as ever; she always appeared as though she had just spent two hours in front of her dressing table, and she probably always had. She was attired in a fitted green satin gown, adorned with many elegantly placed flourishes and flounces. Her honey-blonde hair was smooth and shiny, every tawny and amber strand lying in its' proper place. Her face was seamless and unblemished, probably covered in the most expensive creams and powders that gold could buy. She was decked out with a full set of matching silver jewelry, inlaid with emeralds to accentuate her shimmering robes. Even if the world was ending, Narcissa would show up for it looking like a million galleons.

"How are you enjoying your summer holiday?" Lucius asked.

Severus used a spindly finger to push back a lank portion of his black hair and a look of suppressed amusement stole across his face as he said, "I'm bored."

They laughed at this honest response and felt at ease with their companion once more. It was nice to know that there was at least one person who wouldn't abandon them.

"How are you doing?" Severus asked his face serious again.

Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco exchanged loaded looks. Bellatrix was looking out of the window and seemed a bit oblivious to what was going on around her. She was this way most of the time of late.

"We're holding up, Severus," Narcissa said. "It's been hard since…since…"

"I know," he replied, wanting to save her the unpleasant need of saying it.

They were silent a moment. The room seemed heavy with things that shouldn't or couldn't be said.

"Severus," Narcissa said, "I've been meaning to write you a letter, but I've been distracted lately. Since you're here I'll just ask you. If the Dark Lord permits it, when his anger has abated, will you help Draco complete his last term at Hogwarts? I mean, would you accept him next year after Easter so he can finish his education and graduate?"

Setting down his ginger biscuit he nodded, and addressing himself to Draco he said, "Of course. As soon as the Dark Lord allows it, you're more than welcome to return to school, Draco."

Draco nodded and said, "Thank you, Professor."

Draco knew he hadn't been fair to Professor Snape. In fact, Draco wanted to cringe when he remembered all the childish things he'd said to him the night of Slughorn's Christmas party. He'd just been so upset about his dad being imprisoned, and he was terrified he wasn't going to complete his mission. His whole sixth year, when he remembered it-which he tried not to do-was an odd combination of hazy blurs and lucid images. The foggy fruitlessness of his time in classes and the evenings in his dormitory were divided with the stark clarity of the Room of Hidden Things, where he crooned those wretched spells at that accursed cabinet, and those stolen moments where he sat in a bathroom stall and confessed his fears into the ears of a dead girl.

"How's the resident muggle?" Severus asked them rather abruptly.

"It's fine," Lucius answered him. He didn't even try to mask his bitterness when he added, "I'm sure It's thrilled to find It's circumstances so greatly enriched of late. This must be a palace compared to It's last place of residence. Large meals, soft bed, luxurious accommodations, what more could any mudblood ask?"

Severus noticed the absence of feminine pronouns and couldn't decide who he felt sorrier for, his old friends or the poor creature currently in their care. He couldn't help pitying the Malfoys though he knew they hardly deserved it. It was obvious to him how acutely abused they must feel by being put in this position as guardians of a muggle.

"Could you speak to him, Severus?" Narcissa suddenly asked. "We don't dare broach it, lest he think we're unwilling to carry out his requests, but if you asked him for us he would listen."

"I'm sorry, Narcissa," he apologized. "Ask him what?"

"To remove It from our home. To take It someplace else to live, someplace more appropriate," she explained in a voice that clearly told him she thought her meaning should have been plain to begin with.

And after she spoke, he thought it should have been apparent to him what they wanted. All three of the Malfoys, and even Bella, were looking at him now, their eyes gleaming with unmasked hope. Severus was still taken aback by this request.

"Where do you think he _should_ take her," he asked, genuinely curious to know what they would say.

"Does it really matter?" Lucius asked. "It doesn't belong here. Perhaps he could take It to London and find a home for It with some other muggles, the way Dumbledore did."

"I doubt the Dark Lord will ever be willing to leave her anywhere on her own. And I especially doubt he'd being willing to leave her in the care of muggles," Severus told them. He could see the dismay in their eyes.

"He could take her to live with another Death Eater," Bellatrix said. Severus was surprised she hadn't spoken before now. He hadn't spent enough time in her company lately to notice how subdued she'd become since the Potter incident. Without the grace of her Master to bask in, without a wand to wield, Bellatrix was empty.

"I'm sure the Dark Lord has other servants that would be willing to take her. Many of them don't have homes as old and as…unsullied as ours," Narcissa supplied. "Severus, our home isn't meant to house mudbloods. We…our ancestors…this isn't right, Severus," she finished, too upset to articulate anything more specific than this argument for her cause.

Severus wouldn't voice his real opinion aloud for a thousand galleons, but as he thought of Jane going to live with another Death Eater, he was quite repulsed by the notion.

He agreed whole-heartedly with Lucius and Narcissa that she didn't belong here. She never would. Severus, on the other hand, knew this to be the case for completely different reasons than the Malfoys. They could only see this from their own perspective. Lucius had even spoken a few moments before about how his manor must seem like paradise to the child, like she fancied herself staying in a five-star hotel. Severus understood that she probably saw it more like the proverbial gilded cage. She was a foreigner in a land of magic and wealth, lost in a wonderland maze of beauty, cruelty, and no traces of comforting familiarity. Her world was all cars, television, cinema, telephones, and electricity. They weren't comparable to the world of magic that the Malfoys enjoyed. Severus didn't automatically think that the muggle world was so much _less_, just incontrovertibly _different_. While the Malfoys were revolted by the idea of her meandering through the sacred halls of their pristine home, courting ideas above her station perhaps, imagining herself their equal, Severus knew she would most likely consider this place to be an inescapable labyrinth of boredom and doom.

Sending her to stay with another Death Eater might change the scenery for her but not the sentiment. But Severus would not beseech the Dark Lord to move her somewhere else, even if they offered him unlimited access to Narcissa greenhouse, which supported, he knew, some of the most valuable collections of rare magical plants in all of England. (He had always coveted the Malfoys their priceless flora for the potential potion ingredients.) In fact, if the Dark Lord consulted Severus, he had every intention of saying that, if he couldn't abide the thought of her living with muggles, she should remain with the Malfoys.

There was a very good reason he had always been on such excellent terms with Lucius Malfoy. He wasn't a wholly evil person. He was conniving, cunning, duplicitous to a fault, very self-absorbed the majority of the time, but he was also principled. Severus knew that Lucius, for all of his failings, had certain redeeming features that the other Death Eaters lacked. For one thing he was a family man through and through, whereas many of the others wouldn't scruple to torture and kill their own "beloved" grandmothers if they thought for a second it would get them a better position with the Dark Lord.

Lucius had been schooled from an early age with the Codices of Fordyce, which was a collection of tomes written approximately five centuries ago, that espoused a fundamental philosophy along the same lines as the 'For the Greater Good' rubbish that Grindewald utilized so effectively in his campaign against muggles. Many pure-blood families in England made sure that, by the tender age of eight, their children could recite long passages of it to them by heart, which they often did of an evening for entertainment purposes. These sort of anti-muggle books were rampant in the abundant libraries of wealthy pure-bloods, each filled with graphic drawings of muggles engaging in animalistic behaviors; children and adults sleeping piled up together in dirty nest-like heaps in a corner, always on the floor; pictures of them crawling around on hands and knees, naked, in bizarre, pre-coital mating rituals; Severus had seen one, which he found highly amusing when he was fifteen, depicting a group of muggles, their faces shown in transports of unparalleled delight, while they huddled in a muddy ravine playing with their own feces and flinging it at one another '_for some jolly good fun_', the caption had read.

Despite his ignorance, and his tragic greed for power, Lucius was almost angelic when contrasted with his co-workers. Severus knew that as miserable as Jane would inevitably be here at Malfoy Manor, Lucius, along with his wife and son, wouldn't lose control of their tempers and physically damage her. And though they would indubitably assault her verbally, he doubted they would find seemingly innocuous ways to psychologically terrorize her. At least he hoped. And he also knew that neither Lucius nor Draco would ever contemplate her in a highly hypocritical, salacious way.

"I think you're looking at this from the wrong angle," Severus said. "She has the potential to become a valuable asset to our master. If that turns out to be the case, then how she lives will become important to him. You'll have the chance to redeem yourselves in his eyes by providing her a home where she can work for him."

"Severus," Lucius said, clearly shocked by his remarks. "We don't care how valuable It may or may not be to him. It has to go. Whatever abnormal "powers" that little freak may possess, It isn't a pure-blood or even a witch. It's too vile to stay _here_, period."

Severus sighed. "Lucius, I can see how hard this must be for you." He could tell by the looks on their faces they seriously doubted the truth of that statement. Though it hadn't been brought up by any of them for a long time now, Lucius and Narcissa were very aware of Severus's upbringing.

Bellatrix however had no reservations about throwing it in his face as she said, "Please, Severus, don't make me laugh. I've seen that hovel you live in, and you can't possibly see how hard this is for us."

"I can't see why you care at all, Bella," he swiftly retorted. "How's your husband doing? I hear he has a bad case of the shivers."

"He's fine, thank you for asking," she returned, thoroughly unabashed by his attempts to shame her into caring for the husband she'd abandoned.

Severus looked at Lucius and Narcissa. They seemed so despondent now that he hadn't agreed to intercede with the Dark Lord on their behalf. He wished he could ease their suffering, but knew, at this point, they were beyond the sort of help they were seeking. The Dark Lord wasn't a forgiving person-he might decide to punish them for years.

They were quiet again for a while.

Severus was disheartened by the Malfoys' attitude. He wished there was some way to make them see her differently. Perhaps he should show them his box.

"I brought some things for her," he said.

"You brought some things for whom?" Lucius asked.

"I brought some things for _her_, Jane," he stated.

"What sort of things?" Bellatrix asked. "I hope you're not saying you brought some filthy muggle rubbish into this house."

"It is muggle, but it's not filth, Bella. They're necessities," he explained.

"Severus, we're perfectly capable of providing all of It's necessities," Lucius said with ill-disguised alarm.

"If she is truly impervious to _all_ magic, you aren't."

This was too terrible, Narcissa thought. Had he actually had the audacity to bring some items of a muggle nature into their home?

Severus stood up, set his box on the chair he had been occupying, and opened it.

He pulled out some bottles made of plastic.

"These are some medicines for her," he explained as he began setting them on the table. "None of these will suffice if she's gravely ill or injured of course. If anything of that nature were to occur, I hope you'll send for me at once.

"This medicine is a mild pain reliever and it will also reduce fever," he said pointing to the writing on the bottle.

Their curiosity got the better of them, at this point, and they began picking the bottles up to inspect them.

"What's this one for?" Draco asked, holding his bottle up.

"That one is for an upset stomach. Remember that if she does begin to complain of abdominal pains, keep an eye on her. If she doesn't start feeling better after a couple of hours, or if she's crying a lot and acting as though she's in excruciating agony, send for me straight away. If she needs to be hospitalized for some reason, I'll go with you."

Narcissa, and even Lucius, began to realize that their old friend was concerned for them and truly did mean well. He was completely right, of course, when he told them they couldn't provide all of her basic necessities since magic wouldn't work on her. It just hadn't occurred to them until he started showing them the muggle healing 'medisinine'.

Narcissa held up a bottle and asked, "What's this one for?"

"Allergies."

"What are they?" she asked.

Severus had to think for a moment, to come up with a word she would understand. Finally he settled on, "Hayfever."

"Oh," she said and gazed at the bottle with wonder.

"You'll want to be careful with that. It has soporific effects, so don't give it to her before she's supposed to slip away, or it will put her to sleep.

"All of these medicines are to be dispensed in certain amounts, exactly like healing potions."

He showed them the panel on the back with the dosing index and began explaining it to Narcissa and Lucius.

Bella was trying to open one of the bottles to see what the muggle medisinine looked like. She tried twisting the lid, pulling it off, and then she began to bang it loudly and roughly against the table with no regard for damaging its' contents.

"For Morgana's sake! This stupid muggle bottle is broken or something! It won't open!" she exclaimed over the thumping noises.

His lip curled in obvious disdain, Severus reached swiftly over, plucked it from her inept grasp and said, his voice drenched with derision, "You can't open the lid because it's _child_ proof, Bellatrix."

She lost interest at that point and left the room.

It hardly mattered to the Malfoys. She wasn't doing anything to help them with the mudblood anyway. For three days after she was spanked, Bellatrix had taken her every meal so she could spend a few minutes watching her stand over the table to eat, as Jane wasn't able to sit down. Bella had issued banal jokes, and laughed heartily at them all, and as soon as Jane was healed enough to take a seat for her meals, Narcissa, Lucius, and Draco had resumed all the catering duties.

After he was finished explaining the proper dosing procedures he showed them a box of bandages. "For _minor_ cuts and scrapes only, anything too deep and she'll need the hospital.

"This," he said, pulling out a small tube, "is an antiseptic salve. Just a small amount will be adequate. I also suggest you make sure to wash any abrasions with plenty of hot soap and water."

Narcissa took the tube from him and wondered at this receptacle. All of her salves came in small lidded pots. This was like a toothpaste tube. How odd.

Next, he pulled out a small case and opened it to reveal a row of shiny metal instruments.

"It's a manicure set," he told them.

He pulled out one of the tools and manipulated a lever until it was protruding from the rest of it at a minute angle. He held out his hand and showed them how it worked by clipping a little portion of his fingernail away.

Narcissa was amused by this and couldn't help laughing at it. She used a special spell for cutting her and her families nails. How clever of Severus, she thought. It seemed he thought of everything. He proved this again when he pulled out another box.

His face was going beet red as he handed it to Narcissa.

"This is something for women. I know that witches have a lot of different ways to deal with this…sort of thing…by magic, but, er-

"Well it's just…" he didn't seem able to complete his sentence.

Narcissa looked at the box and turned it over a few times, reading the various panels. It was clear to her it was meant exclusively for women, but she still wasn't sure what it was for. Draco took it from her and started to open it.

"That's-no Draco, don't open it!" Severus said, getting more flushed every second. He took the small box out of Draco's hands and dropped it back into the bigger box resting on the chair.

"It's for women," he said sheepishly.

"Yes, you said that already," Lucius reminded him.

"Never mind, if you just give to Jane, I'm sure she'll know…" he trailed off again looking stricken.

Would she know? What if she hadn't begun yet? How educated was she about such matters? Oh, God! He'd been stupid to bring it for her, but how could he not? As embarrassing as it was, he needed to make sure Narcissa knew what it was in case Jane didn't.

"It's for her…time…her, you know…her _monthly_ time," he said, giving Narcissa what he hoped was a significant look. She looked blank. "You know, her…cycle?"

She finally cottoned-on at the word 'cycle'. Then her face began to glow pink as understanding came over her.

"Right. Thank you, Severus," she said quietly. "You think of everything."

"What is it?" Lucius asked, quite stupidly Narcissa thought.

Eager to protect her son from this unsuitable topic, she said, "I'll tell you later, dear." And she gave him a significant look of her own.

Fortunately Lucius took the hint and decided to drop it for the time being.

Severus next produced some books and some more small boxes.

"This is some materials for her to draw and color with," he said.

They picked these up and began to explore the contents of the boxes and flip through the pages of the books. These items were the most curious of all. They didn't really know what to say about them, so they just set them aside.

The Dark Lord walked into the sitting room and he had Jane with him. She was wearing another ill-fitting dress that had once belonged to Lucius's deceased aunt and they noticed her face was splotchy and she had the shiny remnants of what had probably been tears on her cheeks.

She followed the Dark Lord across the room, looking around at everything but them, per usual.

The Dark Lord stopped in front of them, looked at Severus, and asked, "What brings you here, Severus?"

"I was dropping off some basic necessities for Jane, my Lord."

"What sort of basic necessities?" he inquired.

Severus showed him the things he'd brought and explained what some of the medicines were for. This pleased the Dark Lord to no end, though he kept his face neutral as showing enthusiasm for anything muggle wouldn't be circumspect.

When Severus was done, the Dark Lord turned to the Malfoys and said, "You can't keep Jane locked up anymore."

Though it hardly seemed possible, their pale faces grew whiter as they contemplated his command for a minute.

Then Lucius and Narcissa began protest at the same time.

Lucius started to say, "My Lord, what if It tries to run away?"

While Narcissa began, "What if It falls down a staircase?"

"Quiet," he hissed. They both fell instantly silent.

He looked at them in disgust for a few moments until he saw the proper fear replacing the anger in their eyes.

"You'll make sure she doesn't run away," he said, looking at Lucius, and then he turned to Narcissa and continued, "or fall down the stairs, or any other undesirable thing. From now on she's to stay with you three during the day, and you can lock her in her room while she sleeps. She'll eat with you too.

"She's going to be a part of your cozy, precious family," he told them. He was quite pleased to see the blush creeping across their cheeks. Their love for one another disgusted him.

"I'm leaving now. I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow Severus," he said.

"Yes, my Lord," Severus replied. This was the closest the Dark Lord could come to saying 'goodbye'.

When he was gone Lucius was so overcome with despair he went to the sideboard for an afternoon drink, Narcissa sat down, quite heavily it seemed to Severus, and Draco went to the window and gazed out of it blankly. Jane wandered to the table, began to nibble a biscuit, and she lightly caressed a coloring book.

"These are for you, Jane," Severus told her.

Jane looked at Severus fully. He didn't know it, but he was the only person she'd looked directly in the eye since she had come here.

She studied him for a few moments and then, through a mouthful of biscuit, said, "Fank you, Mr. Snape."


	9. An Object of Ridicule and Solidarity

An Object of Ridicule and Solidarity

Jane was the quintessential muggle. Her every word and action served to solidify the Malfoys' long-held beliefs that non-magical people are closer to primate than human. It would have been quite gratifying, if it hadn't been so bloody annoying.

Once the Dark Lord told them they had to let her out of the room, their troubles were compounded tenfold. Jane was sly. Face-to-face she was fine; she was polite and spoke to all of them respectfully- albeit in a very sullen manner- she never disobeyed any direct orders that they might see fit to give her, and as long as they had their eyes on her she didn't get into anything. But the second they turned their backs on her, she disappeared.

Most of the doors in their manor weren't equipped with locks. It wasn't something that had ever seemed necessary, before. After all, they were perfectly capable of casting anti-intruder spells in the unlikely event that any room needed safeguarding. The main reason they'd put her in the purple room was because it was one of the few spare rooms in the east wing that did have a lock on the door. They didn't even have a completely fool-proof way to ensure she wouldn't wander into the main or west wing of the manor. She never did though; whether this was because she wasn't that curious about the rest of their house or because of some animalistic sense of self-preservation, she never strayed that far from them. She did however thoroughly explore the third floor of the east wing.

It irked Lucius and Narcissa to no end that at least once a day, but usually more, they had to drop whatever they were doing and go search for her. With the help of the observant portraits, they would wander from room to room, calling for her. "Poisson," they had taken to calling her, a snide allusion to her protuberant eyes and bloated mouth. To their amusement she had begun responding to it.

"Why don't we hang a bell around It's' neck, for Merlin's sake?" Lucius asked, completely serious.

Eventually they would find her, but they could never tell what she might be up to as it always varied. Many times she would be in Draco's old nursery that they had converted to a school-room when he was older. She might be sitting on the light beech wood floor looking through the brightly illustrated children books, or she might be playing with an old discarded toy, of which there were many. Sometimes she'd be standing at the chalkboard, drawing childish pictures of flowers, butterflies, ponies, and kittens. As they had a surfeit of space, with at least ten rooms that were seldom-used, just filled with costly superfluous furniture and decorations, they often located her in one of these. Sometimes she would be going through the drawers of a bureau, sometimes she might be standing in front of a portrait, avidly listening to it while it berated her for being a mudblood, and once they finally found her curled up in the bottom of a wardrobe, _napping_.

Every time, every day, they would scold her in the rudest language they could think of, which was very rude. They would issue empty threats about locking her up again or sending her to bed without supper or giving her a long, hard spanking. Sometimes, out of sheer desperation, they might threaten to tell the Dark Lord about her misconduct. But it was all nonsense and she seemed to know that. The Dark Lord had not only forbidden them from locking her up, depriving her of nourishment, or physically hurting her in any capacity, even for the sake of discipline, they doubted he had ever once told her that she had to obey them.

Every time she was rebuked she would stand there with blank eyes and an infuriating, petulant pout on her red fish lips. She would mutter "yes, ma'am" and "yes sir," and if they demanded she promise not to do it again she readily offered up the obligatory response, and then she would steal away again at the first available opportunity.

She also had a deplorable lack of personal hygiene. She would go for days without bathing, and when they couldn't stand the stink of her for one more hour, Narcissa would march her to her bathroom, fill the tub to the brim with near-scalding water, laced plentifully with aromatic oils and salts, and argue with her until she agreed to bathe.

"I's just havin' a baf!" Jane would yell, tears streaming down her face, as though passionately convinced she was being asked to do something utterly absurd.

"When did you last bathe, Poisson?" Narcissa would ask.

"Las' week!"

"Get in the bath you filthy troglodyte, or I'll have Lucius and Draco come in here, strip your clothes off, and throw you in the tub."

That was the threat she always had to resort to get compliance. It wasn't valid, Cissa would never put her husband or son through such a base ordeal, but it always managed to scare the barbarian into bathing. Thank Morgana.

Jane had a number of other disgusting habits as well. They were the sort of things Narcissa had managed to break Draco of by the time he was five. She picked her nose and ate it's contents, used her sleeves in place of napkins, would belch loudly, even at the dinner table, spilled food all over herself, the table, and the floor when she ate, often abandoned her cutlery altogether to pick at her meat and vegetables with her grimy fingers, she chewed her food with her mouth open and accompanied this unwelcome display with loud smacking noises. The worse thing of all was when she polluted their breathing spaces with her flatulence.

Holy Hecate, how they hated her!

Although they weren't allowed to punish her, every time they had to witness her repulsive manners they barraged her with insults and admonishments. Between the three Malfoys and Bellatrix, she must have been told at least thirty times a day that she was: gross, a mudblood, stupid, a mudblood, much too dark to be allowed, a mudblood, a cripple, a mudblood, completely worthless, and, oh yes, a mudblood. Besides these generic abuses Narcissa, sometimes Lucius, and occasionally even Draco, would try explaining to her about things like handkerchiefs, table manners, the appropriate times and places for releasing bodily gases, covering the mouth when one needed to cough or sneeze, and the importance of keeping oneself clean. It didn't to do any good. It seemed Jane was as impervious to criticism and instruction as she was to magic.

She was constantly fidgeting and moving. She had an excess of energy.

"I's needin' fresh air and eserzize!" she would tell them, whenever Lucius or Narcissa asked her if she could possibly hold still for more than three seconds.

Finally, making sure they obtained the Dark Lord's permission, Narcissa managed to find a pair of boots that fit her, nominally, and they started taking her outside for a few hours each day.

Narcissa liked to spend a lot of time in her conservatory and greenhouse anyway. Draco enjoyed riding his broomstick around the expansive wood that edged the manor and surrounded their abundant property. Lucius had a favorite patch of shade under an elm tree, where he liked to sit during mild afternoons while he read books and drank hard lemonade.

Jane would ramble all over the lush gardens, smelling the flowers and making herself little bouquets. She explored the woods, soaking her arms and chest whilst trying to catch tiny fish from the streams, and she continuously got stuck in the same tree, from which a reluctant Draco always had to end up rescuing her. Sometimes she would follow Narcissa around the greenhouse, humming softly while she watched her tend her magical plants. They must have seemed quite exotic to Jane and, when Narcissa would allow it, she even helped her with menial tasks.

She, unlike the Malfoys, grew more sun-baked each day. And though she ripped the delicate, expensive fabrics of her borrowed gowns while she played, and stained them terribly with dirt and grass, they saw it as an equitable exchange as she seemed less temperamental and less restless when she was allowed to wander around the grounds.

On sultry afternoons and cool evenings the Malfoys, with Jane ever in tow, often retreated to a pretty corner of the courtyard that had lovingly been christened "the nook" by some quirky ancestor. The nook was tucked up beside the cool stones of the manor and the outer glass wall of the conservatory. It had been adorned with a semi-circle fountain built into the wall of the manor and a raised flowerbed had been cut into the flagstones. An old willow flourished in the center, surrounded by an assortment of fragrant perennials and this large tree provided them with ample shade in the cozy haven. Each successive mistress of Malfoy Manor, had updated and improved upon this cherished corner of the courtyard. Cissa had found some iron three-tiered plant stands that complemented the table, benches and chairs, and these intricately wrought stands, supported a variety of potted flowers and herbs. There were even a few seed dispensers that, combined with the fresh water of the fountain, managed to attract a wide assortment of birds. The Malfoys mostly read, the paper or books, while Jane entertained herself in a variety of ways, some less irritating than others. She would often take the box of chalk that Severus had brought for her and sit on the wide flat stones sketching her puerile pictures.

Although Narcissa would never own it, she secretly liked Jane's drawings; they weren't masterpieces by any standard, but they still managed to be…pleasing. She had to study them for a while before she could define what it was that made them so. They were usually whimsical scenes: bright blue skies filled with curly clouds and a vivid, spiraling sun shining down on a green landscape which Jane speckled with bright flowers, trees, butterflies, and little animals. Sometimes she would just draw a single over-sized subject, a flower usually or perhaps a butterfly. Whatever she made, they were deceptive in their simplicity. Naricssa noticed that the lines were exacted with clean consistency, and the shapes had a satisfying symmetry. Jane always added clever details, complex micro-designs, and endowed them with coordinated color schemes. Whenever Narcissa noticed that Jane had completed one, which usually took her a good hour, she would find an excuse to walk by it so she could see the newest unique creation. Once or twice she noticed Lucius and Draco standing beside them as well, furtively glancing at them. It made her feel better about her own shameful interest in the mudbloods drawings. If Bellatrix happened across one she would use her boots to smudge it into oblivion. And as usual, Jane would cry. She cried all the time.

"The Dark Lord wants us to take Poisson to London next week," Lucius said, setting down his book and sipping some of his wine.

It was still a couple of hours until dusk and he and Narcissa were in the nook enjoying some after dinner drinks. Jane was lying belly down on the wide lip of the fountain, lazily chasing the slippery fish around, and Draco was out for another ride on his broom. Nobody cared what Bellatrix was doing.

"Where in London does he want us to take It?" Narcissa asked, having to restrain her excitement at the prospect of finally getting out of the manor.

"He's given me a list of people he'd like Poisson to see, so we'll be staying at the Leaky Cauldron for at least a few days. He's also having Nott meet us there to help us watch It."

"Why does he want Nott to help us watch It?" Narcissa asked.

"I think it's to do with us being in London. If It tried running away from here, well, metaphorically speaking, It wouldn't really be able to get far. In London It'll have access to transportation and It may even know other muggles that can offer It shelter.

"After we've shown her most of the people on the list, Thicknesse is going to escort her around the Ministry for a day or two to see some members of the Wizengamot and certain employees as well. Once he's done we'll bring It back here. He…" He hesitated for a moment and then said, "He wants us to buy Poisson some new clothes."

"What in the name of Circe is wrong with the ones It's wearing?"

Lucius shook his head a little and emitted a low noise of disgust from the back of his throat.

"Well they don't really fit well…for one thing. He also said they were too old."

"Too old?" she asked in disbelief, "Did you tell him how thoroughly It ruins every dress It wears?"

"Yes, Narcissa, he knows. He's asked me innumerable questions about It's behavior and habits. He's asked me what sort of food It prefers, and he even wanted to know whether I think It knows how to tell time. I told him I doubt It knows how to read the alphabet let alone a clock. Next thing, he'll want to know how often It has a bowel movement," he muttered bitterly. In truth, Lucius was a bit unsettled by how interested the Dark Lord seemed to be with Jane. It was rather like watching a manticore become enraptured by a baby bunny. If the bunny were bespectacled and frowsy rather than fluffy and cute, but still… "I told him all about It's impoverished knowledge of basic etiquette and how the only part of It's anatomy that It bothers keeping clean are It's teeth."

Uncharacteristically, Jane _did_ take care to brush her teeth, frequently.

"Too old," Narcissa repeated, utterly baffled. "Why does he even care about It's clothes?" Her question was mainly meant to be rhetorical, just a random offering to the warm evening air.

"He described them as antediluvian."

Lucius and Narcissa entertained their separate thoughts without speaking for a few minutes. Then something wonderful occurred to Cissa.

"If we're going to be in Diagon Alley… Do you think you and Draco should purchase some new wands?"

Looking a bit sad, Lucius shook his head and said "He said specifically that Draco and I aren't to purchase wands."

Cissa felt a hard lump form in the back of her throat, though she managed to keep her face completely composed and she used some wine to swallow it down. When she was sure she could speak again, without any signs of emotion, she asked, "What in the name of Circe does he expect us to tell people about It?"

Lucius sighed heavily at this conundrum and said, "I don't think he gives a _damn_ what we say about It as long as it isn't the truth. I've been racking my mind all day, trying to think of a plausible explanation for It, but I'm coming up empty."

Narcissa plainly saw what was troubling Lucius and shared in his distress. The idea of toting that ignorant, vulgar, mudblood around the shops of Diagon Alley, with the chance of meeting up with some of their inquisitive contemporaries, was an uncomfortable one. People, _respectable_ people, might ask them who she was and why they had her.

"Well, we'll think of something, dear. You shouldn't trouble yourself unnecessarily about it," she said. She placed her hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He turned his hand over, and caressed her palm with his own for a moment.

He knew his wife was right. Whatever they said, it would seem odd, and by this point it hardly mattered. Everybody knew that they were deeply allied with the Dark Lord and that he was using their manor for his headquarters. There weren't that many wealthy pure-blood families left in England and in the past the Malfoys had been, through their diplomatic self-interest, on excellent terms with them all. Lucius and Narcissa had learned that while many of their coevals openly proclaimed their belief in the Dark Lord's principles, they didn't consider wearing a mask and actually joining him to be a very refined activity. Other than a few who were Death Eaters themselves, essentially all of their former acquaintances had kept their distance since Lucius was sent to Azkaban. The Malfoys weren't in anybody's good books these days.

It had actually been a dreadful and poignant shock to Narcissa, when every one of her female "friends" had cut her off after Lucius went to prison. Women she'd known for years, most of them were her old classmates and all of them by varying degrees her relations, suddenly stopped issuing her invitations for teas, suppers, card-playing dates, and Potion Parties. She had gone through her pregnancy with Draco at the same time as some of them, raised Draco with their children, spent holidays with them, taken shopping trips to Paris with them. She had even come to regard a couple of them as substitute sisters in the absence of her own, what with one in prison, and the other completely deranged.

The stigma she'd suffered through after Bella was sent to Azkaban had been of short duration and quite mild. After all, Lucius had managed to convince the right people he'd been Imperioed. It was so embarrassing for him to pretend he'd been overpowered by a spell of submission, but as it was the only available alternative to _prison_, the choice was a relatively easy one to make.

All of her friends knew that she and Bella hadn't been spending that much time together prior to Bella's incarceration. To Narcissa's dismay, she had to stand by and watch as her sister grew more and more fanatical about the pure-blood agenda, gallivanting around in a mask instead of making a home for her husband and giving him a family. Narcissa often thought it was their oldest sister's perfidy that had driven Bella to her indecent extreme.

Narcissa turned away from these dark memories and came back to the more pleasant prospect of a journey to London. It was a shame that Lucius and Draco wouldn't be able to procure new wands. At least they would have a small reprieve from their house-arrest.

She and Lucius spent a while discussing the people on the list the Dark Lord had given to Lucius.

"I think the Boothby's go to Lasandra's Tea Room every Wednesday, don't they? They used to anyway," Narcissa said.

"Do you think the Abbotts still attend the weekly potion demonstrations held at Botania's Brewery?" Lucius asked.

"Botania's doesn't hold those anymore," Cissa told him.

She saw Draco flying back from his ride and pointed him out to Lucius. He swiftly descended and made a graceful landing and dismount. Narcissa started to pour him a glass of iced pumpkin juice but he told her he'd prefer the wine. Then he borrowed her wand and lit a cigarette.

Jane joined them at the table, so Narcissa gave her a glass of the juice. "Fanks," she mumbled, ever polite.

They told Draco about the journey to London they would soon be taking. They were going to have to go by train. Muggle transportation was a necessary evil.

Unless, "Can you travel by floo powder, Poisson?" Draco asked her.

She shook her head.

"You've tried it before have you?" Lucius wanted to know. "With Dumbledore?"

The Malfoys were looking at her, but she was leaning back in her cushioned seat looking at the sky. Instead of speaking she simply nodded.

Bellatrix came out of the conservatory door at that point and sat down with them. She poured herself a glass of wine and began to study Jane with an expression akin to one she would have displayed if she were looking at a steaming pile of dog droppings.

Jane noticed this and sat up, looking rather uncomfortable.

"We're going to London next week," Lucius told his sister-in-law with the air of one resigned to getting an unpleasant task out of the way.

"Where are we going?" Bella asked tonelessly.

"I'm sorry. Allow me to clarify. Narcissa, Draco, and I are going to London next week. The Dark Lord is having us take Poisson here," and he gestured to the dirty child seated across the table from him, "to Diagon Alley."

"I want to come, too, Lucius," Bellatrix said, sitting up a little. "I want to get a new wand as well."

"Well, Draco and I aren't getting new wands," he related acrimoniously. "And you're not invited."

"Why doesn't He want me to go?" Bellatrix asked, obviously a bit hurt at being excluded, but mostly trying to cover this by acting indignant. Bella didn't actually want to go to London and be separated from her precious master, but she was upset that he no longer felt that he could rely on her.

"Ask him yourself," Lucius replied.

He knew she wouldn't though, and that was why he felt comfortable lying. The Dark Lord indicated that he didn't care whether Bellatrix accompanied them or not. Therefore, Lucius had gone ahead and made the decision that she should be left behind. He detested his sister-in-law almost as much as he detested Jane. She had belittled him mercilessly after he'd been stripped of his wand, and from what Narcissa had related to him, Bella had shown nothing but complete indifference about whether or not their son would live long enough to be reunited with Lucius once the Dark Lord had ordered Draco to kill Dumbledore. The only pleasure he, or his wife and son, received from Bella these days was watching her make Jane miserable. He and his wife never really discussed Bella's shortcomings as it was a very sensitive subject to Narcissa, but he could plainly see that his wife held little love for her irascible sister.

Having finished her pumpkin juice, Jane stood up and headed to the fountain once more. Bellatrix was watching her with a murderous gaze.

Suddenly a wasp swooped in front of Jane and she stopped and took a few steps back, clearly frightened of it. The Malfoys saw a wicked grin spread over Bella's face as she reached over and snatched Cissa's wand from where it was lying on the table. Casting a simple spell, Bella captured the little thing, and as though a string were connecting the insect to the tip of Cissa's wand, she started manipulating the wasp to dance around the child.

They all began laugh as they watched Jane throw her arms over head, her alarm transparent, as she made futile attempts to dodge it. Bella was in her element, and she maneuvered it maliciously around, waving the insect, stinger side out, around her face, no matter which way Jane turned.

Jane began to cry and call out for help. In her panic, she didn't seem to realize that Bella was actually her tormentor, not the wasp. This of course, made it seem twice as funny to all of them.

Finally, probably a combination of her clumsy leg, her drooping gown and ill-fitting footwear, and her hysteria, Jane tumbled down to the flagstones face first. She managed to catch herself with her hands, so as to prevent her face from actually slapping against the hard rock. Her glasses had been dislodged.

Narcissa, suddenly worried that Jane might be hurt too badly, retrieved her wand from her sister's grasp and released the wasp, for Bellatrix hadn't realized the game may have slipped into a danger zone.

Jane pulled herself into a sitting position, tears and snot running unchecked, her lower lip aquiver. She pulled her skirt up and revealed a scraped and bloody knee.

Bellatrix began to laugh gleefully at this sight, but the Malfoys weren't as amused by Jane's blood as she was. They jumped up and went to kneel by Jane's side.

"It's alright," Narcissa said, trying to soothe her. "It's just a small scratch, Poisson. Settle down now."

The Malfoys exchanged worried glances. What if she had realized that Bella was the one harassing her? What if she told the Dark Lord they hadn't helped her and showed him her little injury? As wretched as it might be, they weren't positive their master wouldn't see fit to torture them again over this nasty mudblood's cut. They were on pins and needles with him as it was.

"Perhaps you need some cake," Lucius offered tentatively when she continued to cry roughly while examining her knee.

Tempting her with sweets didn't seem to make a difference. Lucius picked up her glasses and they all saw that they'd suffered a large crack over one of the lenses. Jane seemed to grow even more distraught by this sight.

He handed them to Narcissa and she swiftly repaired them. "See, Poisson. They're as good as new."

Jane put them back on her face but didn't seem cheered in the least or anywhere closer to calming down.

"Let's go inside and clean you up," Narcissa said. And to Lucius and Draco she said, "Help her up."

Draco and Lucius each grabbed a small arm and easily brought her to feet. She kept her head hung however and continued her silly weeping.

"It's not that bad, is it?" Narcissa tried to reason with her. "You don't need to be upset over something so trivial. We'll use those clever muggle things that Severus brought for you."

"Then afterward we can play a game if you like," offered Draco. He was terrified of being under the Cruciatus Curse again. "I have a lot of card and board games, Poisson."

Jane wiped her nose on her sleeve, sniffled again, and said in a small, hopeful way, "Can we's?"

Draco, irritated a bit that she'd taken the bait, nodded stiffly and tried to smile. It had probably come out like a grimace. Oh, well. At least she was trying to stop crying now.

As they took Jane upstairs and pretended to help her clean and bandage her miniscule wound (for none of them would actually risk _touching_ her blood), Narcissa thought that at least one good thing had come of Jane's being with them. She united them, gave them something to discuss, criticize, laugh at, and a reason to interact in new ways. It was a paltry sort of consolation, she knew. But at this point, Narcissa would take whatever she could get.


	10. Diagon Alley (Part 1)

**Diagon Alley Part 1  
**

**July 10th, 1998**

Though Jane was a muggle, her immunity to magic enabled her to see the Leaky Cauldron with the same ease as the Malfoys. Unlike the muckish muggles surrounding them, she looked fully at the dingy pub and inn and headed for the entrance without as much as a confused blink. It was quite disturbing.

Lucius had booked the largest room on the highest floor, but it still failed to offer up the requisite standard of opulence and cleanliness to which he and his small family were accustomed to enjoying. The suite was dominated by a main sitting and dining room with three detached bedrooms. The furnishings were antiquated, in a shabby, rather than a majestic, way, and the bathrooms were practically the size of broom cupboards. On taking possession of it they spent the first hour pointing out scuff marks on the hefty wooden floors and furniture, and then they drew one another's attention to the loose threads on the thick curtains and thin bedspreads and to the places where the rugs were unraveling. They even criticized the cheap quality of the wax which made up the candles.

Narcissa dithered for quite a while about whether they should actually unpack their trunks, for she thought perhaps it might be more sanitary if they just lived out of them for the duration of their stay, in what was surely a pest infested room. Lucius talked her out of this idea eventually, as the landlord, he said, for all his many, many faults as an innkeeper, must at least have had the sense to cast insect and rodent repelling spells around the suite.

Shortly after this agonizing decision had been made the door of the suite opened and Theodore Nott joined them. He had brought his son with him, Teddy Jr. The two small families greeted each other casually; the Malfoys and Notts had known each other their entire lives and as they were on assignment here for their master they forewent the formalities.

Teddy was almost as tall as Draco and just as pale and thin, though his hair was brown like his father's. He had long thin front teeth that Draco had always thought made him look like a rabbit. Teddy was training to become a Death Eater, and he didn't bother to hide his interest in Jane. The first thing he did on entering the room was to locate her where she was sitting on the wide cushioned window seat gazing raptly through the glass at the muggle filled street below. He crossed the room to her and carefully looked her over with the same objectivity that he might have looked at an exotic animal in a cage.

He'd heard her discussed at length by his father and some of the Dark Lord's other servants. He knew his father had been honored by their master by being given the gracious privilege of penalizing the mudblood, and he also knew she was reported to be impervious to magic. Teddy examined her, confirming that she was just as homely as he'd been told, with her enormous glasses that almost took up half her face, her overlarge lips and eyes, her thick brows and mustache, and her short, wiry, blue-black hair; she was quite a bit smaller than he'd pictured her. Then he took out his wand and started casting some hexes and jinxes at her.

Draco went to stand next to his coeval, his eyes caressing the wand that Teddy was brandishing vainly at her.

"If the Cruciatus Curse won't work on her, I doubt those will," Draco said, sounding rather sad.

"What a freak," Teddy muttered.

"Yeah," Draco agreed, looking at her with unadulterated contempt.

"What's all over her face?" Teddy asked.

"Who the hell knows? Jam or something, probably. Watching It eat is like seeing a pig at a trough."

Teddy scowled at this unpleasant picture. "That bad, eh?"

"Oh, it's awful. Absolutely foul. We keep hoping the Dark Lord will decide to have It carved up like bacon, so, fingers crossed, right?"

"Yeah. Sure," Teddy agreed half-heartedly. "What can you really expect from a mudblood?"

He wasn't sure what to make of her, though he could understand why Draco seemed to hate her so passionately. If he and his dad and his grandmother had to care for a muggle like some stinking pet, he'd probably resent her just as much. Teddy's father, who was a man who could take a sensible approach to just about anything it seemed, had impressed upon his son the use of her unusual power of spying, and had represented this gift in the best way, like a very useful tool the Dark Lord had serendipitously stumbled upon. So Teddy, who adored his father, mimicked this dispassionate perspective of her, but, instinctively, he didn't bother trying to rationalize with Draco.

They were standing about two paces from her having this conversation. She could have been a statue as far as they were concerned. Of course, as she didn't move or speak or show any response to them, she was doing a good job of imitating one.

"What are we going to tell people?" Teddy asked.

"My parents reckon we should say It's part of an advanced behavior study or something. Like we could hint around that we've volunteered to help out with some top secret experiment that's being conducted by an obscure branch of the Ministry. Perhaps," he said with a touch of despair.

"Wonder if anyone would actually swallow that," Teddy said in a dubious tone. "It's more creative than anything we've come up with, mind. We could only think of acting as though she's a sort of pet, like a novelty or something, but then we worried people might get the wrong impression. You know? Like she's…" he trailed off, unable to finish.

He didn't have to though.

"Yeah. Wouldn't want anyone thinking that. Don't see how anyone _could_, but still, some people have filthy minds," Draco said.

Teddy laughed a bit. "That they do," he agreed. "You and your dad getting new wands this week?"

Draco just stood there for a moment, swallowing hard and trying to keep his emotions in check, but he could feel his face heating and knew his pale skin was coloring, giving him away. He found all he could manage was shaking his head.

"Tough break," Teddy responded, not really caring at all, but acting tactfully sympathetic like any proper Slytherin. His dad had advised him not to taunt the Malfoys too badly about their low status with the Dark Lord.

Draco knew that Teddy was full of bollocks, of course. He'd been playing these "friendship" games his whole life and knew every rule and nuance of them.

"I'm starving," Teddy said, trying to break the tension.

Lucius and Nott started arguing over the sleeping arrangements.

It seemed that the Dark Lord had instructed that Jane not be allowed to sleep on her own while in London and nobody wanted to sleep with her, but somebody had to, and of the three bedrooms only one of them was equipped with two narrow beds. It was also the smallest room in the suite.

"I booked the suite across the hall for Teddy and myself and we should just share that," Theodore said. "As you and your family are accustomed to her, I think one of you should sleep in the same room with her. There's no need for all of us to be exposed to her."

"If the Dark Lord thought that my family and I were sufficient to guard her then he wouldn't have bothered having you meet us here, Nott," Lucius reminded him. "Now, I think that taking turns would be the most judicious way to settle this. We should trade off until we leave."

"That doesn't make sense, Lucius. If you're sleeping in the same room with her, then are Narcissa and Draco going to share a bed?"

The Malfoys pondered this for an uncomfortable moment and then Draco sighed and said, "I can take the sofa that night."

Lucius smiled and said, "See. Problem solved."

Nott, who had absolutely no intention of sleeping in the same room as a mudblood, was, rather reluctantly, about to pull rank on Malfoy, but it seemed that Jane had just realized what was being discussed. She jumped up from her window seat and came to the middle of the room and said, "I's ain' sleepin' wif none of you's but Mrs. Malfoy."

"Shut up, mudblood," Lucius told her coldly. "This isn't up to you."

She stomped her good foot and crossed her arms. The Malfoys braced themselves for another colossal meltdown.

"Is too!" she yelled. "I's makin a fuss 'bout it too!"

Nott and Teddy exchanged surprised looks.

"I's said I's ain' sleepin' wif any men, and if you's be tryin' to makes me, I's-I's" she cast around for some viable threat, and seemed to settle for, "I's ain' bavin' once!"

"Merlin's beard, is she always this disrespectful?" Nott asked the Malfoys, and as an afterthought, taking in her soiled dress, face, and hands added, "And this filthy?"

Undignified, the three Malfoys groaned in unison.

"It's complicated, Nott," Lucius said, a bit embarrassed. "It's usually quite passive. But It can be…_stubborn_, at times."

"Why don't you just put her over your knee?" he asked.

Arching one of his eyebrows and slightly curling his thin upper lip, Lucius returned,

"Why don't _you_ just put It over _your_ knee?"

Nott was about to say that he most certainly would but then he remembered the Dark Lord's stricture about them hurting her the first night he'd found her. Nott began to rub his brown and gray goatee as though contemplating a problem he hadn't realized would be so complicated to begin with.

Finally, with a look of triumph, he leaned down and spoke to Jane as though she were five. He even brought out his index finger to wag at her while he scolded, "Be quiet now, like a good girl, or you won't get any dessert after supper."

The Malfoys laughed fairly hard at this ridiculous attempt to bribe their stormy mudblood who, they knew, didn't have much of a sweet tooth.

Deciding she had better take matters into her own hands, Narcissa said, "If I agree to share a room with you Poisson, then you'll have to take a bath every morning, wash your hair _and_ every centimeter of your grubby skin, keep your face and hands clean throughout the day, exhibit better manners at meal times, and use your handkerchiefs to wipe your nose instead of your sleeves. Will you agree to do those things?"

Jane just stood there for a few moments with an empty look in her eyes, while she was apparently trying to decide whether this seemed like a fair exchange. Finally, she uncrossed her arms and gave a small nod.

"You'd better keep your end of the deal, you disgusting peon," Narcissa told her, sounding decidedly skeptically.

"I must say, I have a new appreciation for the…difficulties of your position," Nott said.

Lucius rolled his eyes and none of the Malfoys bothered saying anything. _Nobody_ could appreciate how insupportable their situation was, nobody at all.

* * *

After they'd made up their sleeping arrangements and finished settling in, Narcissa made Jane wash her face and hands, and then the two families took her downstairs for a light lunch. They chose a table in the corner of the dining room so they could give Jane an unhindered view of the room. Shortly after the food was brought to the table a small group of wizards sat down at a table close to their own and they were able to point out to her a man called Stansil Goodbell, and then they happily crossed him off the list.

The other diners were looking uncomfortably at the table where the Malfoys and Notts were sitting. Lucius in particular was attracting a number of unappealing looks. As it was no longer necessary for the identities of the Dark Lord's servants to be secret, Nott was drawing his fair share of uneasy attention as well.

Many of the Death Eaters were proudly displaying their Dark Mark like the highest of accolades, while others chose to keep it hidden, like an ace up the sleeve, and then flashed them when it was time to go in for the kill. The notorious icon never failed to inspire fear in decent wizards and witches. It opened doors, extracted favors, and, these day, cowed the hearts of those who had always most adamantly opposed the pure-blood creed of superiority. A Dark Mark was a universal currency, more powerful than the shiniest bag of galleons, and twice as heavy. The whole magical community of England knew the Dark Lord was on top, and it was hard to find any hope that he wasn't going to remain in this crushing position for a long time yet. Any person brave enough or foolish enough, depending on how you looked at it, to offer resistance to the new administration disappeared in the night, and was never seen or heard from again.

Though the table where they sat was arousing discomfort and fear, the other patrons surrounding them simply tried to hurry through their meals in the most casual manner possible, before they scurried off to finish their shopping or go home.

Lucius felt his spirits lifting as he noticed the fleeting looks of dread his presence was creating in his fellow citizens. As nobody outside the circle of the Dark Lord's followers knew the truth about his miserable position inside the hierarchy, and nobody realized he had no wand, to the external world he was just as formidable as Nott.

He found himself checking his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall beside the table. He looked awful. The normal pallor of his exceptionally handsome face had been usurped by a perpetually flushed puffiness, created by the excessive alcohol he needed to constantly consume these days in order to dull the ache of his diminished circumstances. His eyes were yellowed and blood-shot, and his white-blonde hair was looking straggly and limpid. He remembered his wife's futile attempts to run a comb through it before they came downstairs and Lucius now severely regretted not allowing her to complete this simple toilette. Lucius also realized that, save the large silver ring on his right middle finger bearing the emerald snake that was like a type of crest the Malfoys had adopted centuries ago, he wasn't even displaying his wealth with an assortment of gem encrusted finery. Lucius thought that, perhaps after dinner, he would go upstairs and spend some time grooming himself properly.

After they finished their leisurely meal, Narcissa, Draco, and Teddy took Jane into Diagon Alley, heading for Twilfitt and Tattings to have her measurements taken and order her some new clothes. Lucius promised his wife he would join her soon and headed upstairs, and Nott said he needed to go to Knockturn Alley to conduct a brief business transaction and he also voiced his intention of joining them shortly. So the three remaining guardians took their charge and headed for their destination, scanning the sparse shoppers for the other unsuspecting targets of their master's strategic plans.

There were only five people on the list and the Malfoys and Notts were, all in all, quite confident that they would be able to find them all on this trip. Each one was a prominent member of the relatively small wizarding community. Most were either directly or indirectly involved with the politics governing the country. A few were wealthy pure-bloods who, the Dark Lord felt, weren't cooperating as fully as they should be with the policies he was trying to put in motion. These disobliging souls were known to be using insalubrious language among their peers, servants, and even in a couple of cases, wink, wink, their children. Oh the Dark Lord had his spies, but he was hoping, with the help of Jane, he could gain deeper insights into these peoples private lives, and hearts, so he could steer these subversive fools in the right direction, without wasting anymore precious, pure blood.

Not that the Malfoys or Notts knew any of this, not directly. They had their suspicions of course, and these were fairly close to the truth, but the Dark Lord wasn't the sharing type. Honestly, it didn't take a genius to figure out why he wanted these individuals to be watched. Although they, and their families, were all cousins and acquaintances of the Malfoys, they weren't too fussed over what Jane could potentially unearth about them, thus sealing their possibly tragic fates. The Malfoys, especially, couldn't afford to care for anyone but themselves as far as they were concerned; they were just about drowning, and their blood status was currently the only floatation device at their disposal. Whatever befell their distant relations from this act of pointing them out to Jane, well, _c'est la vie_.

Narcissa didn't enjoy coming to Diagon Alley that much anymore. She'd been a regular patron here all her life, and so many times she had wished for it to be altered. She'd detested the rowdy people, so drab and common, calling out coarsely to one another, their grubby brats crying and laughing and running around unrestrainedly. There had always been these boisterous street vendors, loudly advertising their indispensable wares, bartering and vulgar. The pure-bloods and half-bloods and mudbloods all bumping into each to other, perhaps even eating side by side; it was disgusting. She'd felt rather invisible at times, uncertain if the people passing her realized she was so above them. It had seemed such a zoo to Cissa. But there had been this verve, a lively, cheerful tattoo that had been inconspicuous to her until it was absent. Now that Diagon Alley had been stripped of all the things she had always considered unappetizing, that palpable pulse had faded to a dull aching throb.

The patrons she saw these days were no longer noisy or brash, but rather bleak and gloomy. With tense, tight expressions they scampered from one shop to the next, eager to finish their transactions and go home to their families. There were no longer any reunited school chums sitting around the fountain, sharing the current news of their inane lives, lingering over a cup of tea. Hardly anybody brought their children here these days, and Cissa couldn't blame them. The eager, yet friendly, vendors had been replaced by a new breed of cart-pushers. These seedy looking peddlers offered scant merchandise of a darker nature and cheaper quality than their predecessors, and when they looked at Narcissa she got the distinct impression that many were thinking of either robbing or disrobing her. Perhaps both in some cases. Bands of Snatchers, the dregs of half-blood society, fiercely pounded circuitous routes over the cobblestones and into the dead-ending side streets. Cissa had heard egregious rumors about what happened to any witch negligent enough to be caught on her own, come dusk. This sordid gossip added entirely new connotations to the word snatch.

There were other changes as well, cosmetic kinds. And as with anything that had to do with appearances, these bothered Cissa interminably. She saw random bits of paper and detritus scattered over the streets and in the gutters; it was sickening, like some muggle tenement.

Almost half the shops were empty now. Some had closed simply because the owners couldn't generate enough revenue to cover their overhead. Others had fled England, before Dumbledore had died that is, because the Dark Lord had closed off all the exits, to prevent the pure-bloods from skipping off to another, more peaceful, country, and to keep the mudbloods from escaping. Some of the shopkeepers had been killed or taken to Azkaban. More than a few of these had been the proprietors of bookstores, who hadn't adhered swiftly enough to the ban on muggle-friendly literature. These stores were distinguishable from the others in two ways. They had been charred crispy, and as she walked by them Cissa saw through the windows that only cinders remained. The other thing that set them apart was the blazing red epithet that had been cast over the entrances: BLOOD TRAITORS. Nobody dared cast the countercharm to remove these glowing reprimands, though the crimson letters clashed garishly with the eyes.

Narcissa knew that no matter how long she lived, she would never understand why some people felt the masochistic need to stand up for the rights of muggles. To be killed or imprisoned for such an inane and worthless cause seemed downright shameful to her. Why couldn't the idiots just keep their heads down, blend in, _survive_?

In Twilfitt and Tattings Narcissa instructed Jane to stand on a stool while a seamstress set a floating piece of measuring tape to span the insubstantial lengths of her arms, legs, and shoulders; then it began to measure the flimsy girths of her waist, upper arms and chest. Narcissa told the proprietor of the shop, a Mr. McBathers, to keep her sizes on record, in case she needed to make replacement orders for the robes Jane would inevitably wreck.

Mr. McBathers' eyebrows had disappeared under his mop of ginger hair on catching sight of Jane. Narcissa doubted he'd ever seen a more pathetic piece of rubbish in his robe shop. Let alone accompanied with anybody as affluent as Mrs. Malfoy. Cissa had felt her immaculate blood rushing to her cheeks, in the most unflattering way she was sure, and she held her breath until all danger had passed that the heavily mustached little man might comment on Jane's uncanny presence.

Normally Narcissa would have flourished in a clothing store, especially if she was given the prospect of a fresh project; but Jane didn't qualify as fresh or a project - she was nothing short of a grungy nuisance. Narcissa selected plain patterns to be made up in black, brown, and dark blue, and left off all the distinguishing little accessories she would have delighted over if she had a worthy candidate for her stylish expertise. The entire visit lasted under an hour, an unheard of record for Narcissa. She simply flipped through the catalogues, chose the dullest designs she saw, and picked out some nightdresses, white knickers, and shifts for Jane. Each garment was sturdy, functional, and austere.

It wasn't that Narcissa resented spending the galleons on her, not in the least. The sum of it was too measly to be sneezed at, really. And it wasn't even that Jane was a mudblood. If Narcissa had detected the slightest hint of natural grace or beauty in the child, she wouldn't have been able to resist finding colors to bring out the blush of a smooth, creamy cheek, or to accentuate latent hues in the irises, or to enhance a trim waist and blossoming bosom. Nothing about Jane was creamy and the limping, lackluster cripple had no appealing finesse of movement. She was deficient in curves. Even with a tight bodice her small chest was…well, they were like insect bites really, and this, combined with her narrow hips, meant that she barely even possessed a discernible waistline. To Narcissa, beauty was an art, she was an artist, and some people, and most especially herself, were an ideal canvass. Jane didn't even register as a blank piece of parchment that was suitable for sketching.

Lucius and then Nott rejoined them just as they were finishing.

Narcissa was pleased to see that her husband had combed his hair and put on a set of the jewelry she'd packed for him. She didn't think the amethysts went with his robes as well the sapphires would have, but she smiled at him and said, "Hello, handsome."

He smiled back and gave her a demure kiss on the cheek. He'd shaved as well. Lovely.

Teddy snickered at this exchange and Draco scowled at him.

Draco and Teddy wanted go to Quality Quidditch Supplies to look at the latest model of a superb Firebolt that had just been released for the public. None of the others had a problem with this so the young men went to drool over the new broomstick.

The rest of them took Jane to a store that sold boots. She needed some new shoes more than anything. Declining the owners many offerings of assistance, Narcissa took Jane behind a partition made by a rack of shoes and had Nott and Lucius fetch various styles and sizes. It was irritating trying to find shoes for the wretched cripple. She had to manually maneuver her detestable limb, which Narcissa could barely look at, and this made it hard for Jane to get each article on and then off again. The limited tractability of her fake leg also made it impossible for her to wear anything with a heel longer than a few centimeters and since very high heels were in never-ending vogue, Nott and Lucius were hard put to find anything that would work for her. Eventually, Jane and Narcissa found about five pairs of sturdy leather boots that Jane said she walk in comfortably.

They took their purchases to the counter and the while the clerk was ringing up the merchandise, praising their selections and enumerating all the charms that were systematically cast over every fine boot that comprised the inventory, another person on the Dark Lord's list came into the store.

It was a man called Danvers. Mr. Danvers began to greet Nott and the Malfoys with an oily, ingratiating smile and voice. When he saw Jane however, his face dropped and his eyes widened in unconcealed surprise.

Nott stepped forward, in an attempt to smooth over the awkward moment and, fingers crossed, head off any uncomfortable questions. "How's the lovely, Mrs. Danvers?" he asked.

Recovering quickly, Mr. Danvers replied, "She's well, thank you. How's your son, Teddy, doing?"

Lucius and Narcissa joined the conversation and all the tedious niceties were observed with the ease of a well-rehearsed dance. In a way it was exactly that, a dance, a play, a complex art. Every social situation had a separate set of rules, each meal, every gathering, some even varied by the day of the week. If your grandfather was present at a Tuesday supper, and you were his second grandson, you greeted him by placing your left hand on his right shoulder and during the meal you had to make sure you were seated to his right, but never adjacent. The wealthy pure-bloods, the foundations of magical society, knew that outsiders sometimes snickered at the fastidiousness of their protocols, but that was simply because they were jealous. They didn't know the members-only, secret handshakes, and their ignorance of these esoteric customs occluded them so delightfully and efficiently.

After the basic formalities had been got through Narcissa walked toward the back of the shop to locate Jane. Suddenly a loud crashing noise resounded through the store, and Narcissa, rushing toward the source of what sounded like an avalanche, found the mudblood standing next to a pile of shoes that had moments before been a glorious display.

"I's didn't mean to," Jane said, softly, clearly frightened at the look of rage on Cissa's face.

Everybody else in the store, customers and employees alike, were soon gathered around the ignominious sight of the ruined exhibit and the grimy little reprobate who had caused it.

"I's sorry," she said. And then, in true form, she began to cry.

Infuriated with Jane for attracting so much embarrassing attention to herself, and all of them, Lucius went to her side and grabbed the child roughly by her upper arm. The tips of his pale fingers turned red as he was digging them into her so hard and he was pleased when he heard her gasping a little. All the gathered witches and wizards watched as he escorted her firmly and quickly from the store, followed by his wife and Nott.

As soon as they reached the muggy heat of the late afternoon air, Jane began floundering, trying to extract herself from his heated clutch.

"You's hurtin me, Mr. Malfoy! Le' go!" she squealed loudly.

Lucius released her and she made a new spectacle of herself when she tripped over her boots and fell onto her bottom. She was crying loudly and people that were passing by turned to stare at her. She was such a sight! Very few people in England with dark skin had the creditable preservation of being half-bloods. Her dubious heredity was as audacious as the red BLOOD TRAITOR caveat flashing loudly over the burnt bookstores. But even stranger than the over zealous pigment of her skin was the fact that she was accompanied by a group of people, who were not only wealthy and powerful, but also known to be associated with the Dark Lord. They may as well been walking around with a tethered hippogriff. That's how odd her presence here truly seemed.

The owner of the store came out carrying the bags of boots that Narcissa had forgotten inside. Seeing the svelte, intimidating Malfoys and Nott gazing down in disdain at the bawling child on the ground, he simply set the bags by Lucius's feet and went back inside.

Finally, Lucius got her on her feet again and leaned over to talk quietly and roughly into her ear.

"You are making the most shameful scene, Poisson. Stop crying this instant, and get yourself together," he admonished her. "We won't tolerate this behavior for one more second, do you understand me?"

She closed her mouth and tried to reign in her misery a bit. She started to take a swipe at her gooey nose with the sleeve of her blue dress, but Narcissa upbraided her in time, and Jane pulled out a handkerchief and used it instead.

"I's said sorry," she told them in a shaking voice.

Leaning down, Narcissa whispered, "Did you at least see Clyde Danvers?"

Jane nodded.

"Are you sure?" Lucius asked.

She nodded and said, "Yeah, I's seen 'im. He were pale and tall and 'ad straight black 'air, righ'?"

They all sighed in relief. At least, whatever else may have happened, that was one more person to cross off the Dark Lord's list.

_To be continued…_


	11. Diagon Alley (Part 2)

So, I know that the movie I reference at the end of this chapter didn't come out until 1999, and this story is taking place in 1998. I don't care. Its fantasy, so I opt to suspend reality for this cinematic situation as easily as the rest of my story. I hope you can too. Thanks

**Diagon Alley Part 2**

After supper that evening Narcissa made sure that Jane took her promised bath. As she had to sleep in the same room with the mudblood, she was sorely tempted to let herself in the lavatory and give Jane a thorough scrubbing herself. She felt a strong desire to wash behind Jane's ears and shampoo, rinse, and repeat, shampoo, rinse, and repeat, etcetera, etcetera. Luckily, this dire urge to clean a creature as nasty as Jane collided with her propriety. Ironically, it was her sense of decorum that had prompted Narcissa to agree to share a room with Jane in the first place.

If her Lucius and her Draco were the only men involved, then none of it would have been an issue. However, Cissa didn't really know Theodore and Jr. Not really. Although she had been loosely acquainted with every respectable pure-blood family since her birth, forty-three years had disabused Cissa of certain notions of nobility that she had been raised to believe were the core of decent society. She didn't want to examine her feelings of unease at the idea of Nott or his son sleeping in the same room with anybody as helpless and ignorant as Jane. If Jane weren't so young, she wouldn't have cared one way or the other. It wasn't that she thought they might _rape_ her. Although she didn't know what sort of proclivities Nott might indulge, she did know that he had enough sense not to rattle the child and chance incurring the Dark Lord's displeasure. But she was worried that one or both of them might…try to seduce her. Probably not, it was a ridiculous idea to be sure; but Cissa thought that perhaps Jane might be susceptible to the sort of male attention of which she had, being an orphan, been deprived.

This disturbing idea could be dated back about a week ago when she had watched Draco sit on the floor to play that silly board game with Jane, on the evening of the wasp. Draco had hoped that Jane wouldn't hold him at his word, but she had, she was clearly intent on it. So Draco had found a game, a very simple one, and sat down with the cripple on a thick soft rug in the sitting room. He had painstakingly explained the rules to her and then proceeded to play two rounds with her. It wasn't the sort of game where winning revolved around actual knowledge or strategy, but rather mere chance. Poor Draco had been bored out of his skull the entire time and he'd only agreed to play the second game because Jane had started whining about it. But Jane had certainly enjoyed herself. When she'd won the second game she had expressed her pleasure with her entire body, smiling, applauding herself, and she even wriggled her bottom a bit in her excitement. The Malfoys had all laughed at her enthusiasm. She'd reminded Narcissa strongly of a puppy. And then the next day she'd asked Draco to play with her again. He'd refused of course. But then Narcissa and Lucius both noticed that Jane had _sort of _seemed to follow Draco around for a while that day. He had noticed it as well, and finally, growing sick of his olfactory shadow, turned to her and said, "Look, Poisson, I'm not going to scratch you behind the ears or rub your belly. Go away!"

"Fine," she had yelled, "I's goin' to brush my's teef!"

"Good," he'd answered, with a calm satisfaction, "and why don't you wash your smelly armpits while you're at it?"

She didn't return from brushing her teeth, and they'd had to hunt her down, _again_.

So Narcissa didn't want Jane to spend the night in a room with only Nott or his son for a guardian. And the fact that Jane had seemed opposed to it, had caused her to wonder if the child herself had seen Nott, in the course of spying for Dumbledore, engage in behaviors that were…abnormal. Cissa wouldn't allow herself to think of this as protecting Jane. That would seem too much like caring, but essentially that's what she was doing.

It saddened Narcissa to know that the only people in the world who's nature she could always rely on were her own, her husband's, and her son's. And sometimes she, quite shamefully, entertained a few doubts about theirs. It wasn't because of anything that either of them said or did, she knew that. It was only because of herself. Well, because of Andromeda actually. It had broken her heart when, at the age of sixteen, she'd realized that she had lost her favorite sister forever.

In hindsight there had been signs. But while it was all happening, it had seemed unbelievable. Droma had sent an owl to their mother and father, but she had also sent Cissa a separate letter. It had simply read:

'I love him, Cissy. I'll miss you, but not as much as I'd miss him.

Please remember me sometimes. I'll never stop remembering you.

Yours ever,

Droma'.

Cissa had thrown that letter into the fire and never told a living soul about it. Not even Lucius. She wasn't trying to burn the letter itself, but she desperately wanted to incinerate the implications of what her sister must have done. Perhaps she was hoping she could cremate her love for her sister.

The next day her mother had sent her an owl explaining that her sister had gone and thrown her life away and it was too terrible to be spoken of; Druella had related the atrocity, as succinctly as possible, in a shaky, nearly illegible scrawl, and had told Cissa not to mention Droma's name to herself or her father, or ever again. When she'd returned home for her Easter holiday, a few weeks later, her parents didn't say anything about it. They'd removed every portrait of Andromeda, even the ones where all three sisters had posed together, they had burnt her name off all the family trees, and they'd thrown out all of Droma's belongings from her old room. And from then until now, it was as though she had never been born.

Narcissa still struggled not to remember Droma, she felt so weak when she did, but sometimes she couldn't help it. After all, she had always considered Droma to be the kind one. The unselfish one. How could she have misjudged her sister so completely? To this day she was haunted by it all, and it still affected her. It made it harder for Narcissa to trust people.

After her bath, Jane put on a dressing gown and went to the main room to sit with the grown-ups and listen to them talk. She had seated herself on the sofa, between Teddy and Draco, but even though she was freshly bathed and wearing clean clothes Draco had gotten up and found another seat. Teddy didn't care if she sat beside him, and Jane curled her left leg under herself, reached down and pulled up the artificial one, and then she stretched out in the place Draco had just vacated.

It pleased and amused Cissa to see how mature her son looked as he sat there sipping from his snifter and puffing on his cigarettes. He and Teddy were enumerating the merits of the new Firebolt, comparing it to the last model and all the other superbly inferior brands currently on the market.

"It doesn't hold a candle to the Nimbus 2002. I read in Which Broomstick that the Tornadoes have placed an order for them, so maybe they'll be able to scrape a win at the next Cup," Teddy was saying.

"Perhaps," Draco answered. It was hard for Draco be animated over Quidditch teams. As a sport he loved it, but every time he had begun to support a certain team, they went and changed up the players so that there were more mudbloods on the pitch than pure-bloods. So he'd have to find a new one to root for. After a while, it got a bit disheartening. Being the elite made for some hard sacrifices.

Lucius and Nott were discussing fopshkins, which were the newest hat craze that all the stylish wizards were wearing.

"I thought the one Danvers was wearing this afternoon made him look like a chrysanthemum," Lucius said.

Nott, Narcissa, and even Draco, who had heard his father, laughed at this remark.

"I know," Nott agreed after he'd done laughing. "I'll never understand why some men think its okay to wear that shade of pink."

"Forget the color," Lucius said. "Did you see that ridiculous feather arrangement adorning it? And he had it tilted at the wrong angle. I don't see how his wife lets him leave home that way."

"They're almost exactly like the nerks that were so popular a couple decades ago," Narcissa contributed. "I never liked the nerks and I don't care for the fopshkins either. I wish reeverderns would come back, though."

She and Lucius shared an intimate smile at her mentioning reeverderns. They were the hats that had been in style the year they were engaged. Although the hats had gone out of fashion by their wedding day, for years afterward she would often have Lucius wear this beautiful blue one when they were alone. To this day, if Narcissa saw a picture of a reeverdern, it would make her pulse race and her eyes dilate.

Narcissa stifled a deep sigh of discontent and felt a pang in her hollowed chest. Lucius hadn't made love to her for so long.

"Well Danvers is an idiot. Always has been," Nott said. "He has a head that's thicker than a cauldron bottom. I can't believe he's opposing the elimination of the Muggle Protection Act."

Lucius scoffed. "I can't believe he was supporting it to begin with. I asked him six years ago, why he was helping _Arthur Weasley_," Lucius pronounced this name like an expletive, "push it through and you know what he said?"

Lucius had told Nott what Danvers had said to him, more than once, but, following the dictates of decency, he politely pretended he hadn't heard it before.

"He said, 'Muggles are too helpless to pose a threat to our kind, Lucius. Why can't we let them be?'"

Despite the redundancy, Nott and Narcissa both scoffed with aversion.

"If any of his children announced they wanted to mate with a mudblood, you know he'd be singing a different tune," Narcissa observed.

"It's too bad all the Weasleys have gone into hiding. If anyone could lead Jane to Potter, I think it would be one of them," Nott said.

They all looked at Jane. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply. She was asleep. It wasn't even ten o'clock yet so she must have been worn out from the day of traveling and shopping.

* * *

The next day was equally productive.

The Notts and Malfoys ushered Jane around the shops, pretending to browse and often buying whatever they fancied.

In the morning Lucius and Draco had stopped by Gringotts and made a trip to their vault. They replenished their moneybags, and Lucius had some family jewels to exchange. The Malfoys had more precious gems than they could wear in a lifetime, so most of it was stored in their cavernous vault. But they often deposited different sets of jewelry for safe-keeping and would bring out different ones that they were fond of but hadn't worn in a few years. Narcissa had given him a list of certain items in their vast collection that she wanted to take home and wear again.

Jane was a perpetual pain. When they took their eyes off of her, she would slip away from them, never very far, but then they would have to walk around whatever store they were in, searching for her. One time, Narcissa had grown quite frantic after a casual search had established that Jane wasn't hiding around any of the aisles of merchandise.

"Lucius," she had whispered, her eyes widened in her panic, "I can't find Poisson. It isn't here!"

Then all five of them had begun walking around the rows and displays of books. After a few minutes, they'd all gotten alarmed. Oh Merlin! They'd lost her. So they'd all filed out the door together, hoping fervently that she hadn't managed to hobble very far. But they spotted her right away. She was just sitting on a bench right out front, humming and swinging her good leg, a picture of innocence and boredom.

They all chastised her vehemently but she simply crossed her arms and studied some rubbish lying on the ground in front of her. The mischievous little imp clearly didn't give a damn.

By lunch time they'd crossed paths with two more people from the list. Well they hadn't actually seen Aldous Abbott, but rather his wife. But Jane had assured them that this was good enough.

"Are you sure, Poisson?" Narcissa had probed, needing to be certain before they counted Mr. Abbott as 'seen'.

"'E live wif her?" Jane had asked.

The Malfoys and Notts had exchanged inquisitive glances. They were fairly positive that the Abbotts were still a couple.

"Yes. I'm pretty sure they live together," Narcissa had said. "They're still married."

Jane shrugged and said, "I's jus' be followin' 'er to 'im, then."

Since this coincided with what they'd heard her tell their master, and she seemed convinced that it would work, they decided to focus on the last person on the list: a Mr. Rugger Boothby.

Narcissa was a bit disappointed that they were almost finished. Diagon Alley wasn't as nice a place as it used to be, but once they were back at home, it might be months before they were allowed to leave again. After they spotted Boothby, they were to send a message to Thickness, and then he and Nott would take Jane by car to the Ministry of Magic for a day or two. Jane and Nott would return to the Leaky Cauldron each evening for supper and to sleep, and then once that business was finished, the Malfoys would take her back to the manor. Then her work for the Dark Lord would begin.

Trying to look on the bright side, Narcissa was thankful that they'd finally been able to buy Draco everything he wanted for his birthday. On the day or two when Jane was going to be at the Ministry, Draco and his parents were going back Twilfitt and Tattings to update their wardrobes.

After they'd eaten some soup and sandwiches at The Dueler's Diner they were on their way to a shop called Paisley's Art Emporium. Lucius and Narcissa had decided to buy Jane any art supplies for which she expressed an interest. The weather had been exceptionally pleasant over the summer, but it couldn't last forever. Once autumn settled in, the chilly winds and cold rains wouldn't permit anymore of the outdoor respites that it seemed Jane sorely needed to keep her in a good humor. Unless the Dark Lord miraculously had a change of heart about where Jane should live, it was going to be a long winter. They had already bought her some picture books and whatever else they noticed capturing her attention for more than a few minutes. She was entranced by anything shiny or colorful, so they'd already spent a good deal of money on her. Unloading their cash on the mudblood felt exactly the same as it did when they made charitable contributions to humanitarian causes, a hapless necessity.

They were almost to the art store, passing the entryway to Knockturn Alley, when they were suddenly confronted by Patrick Goyle and Albert Crabbe. These hulking baboons had their sons with them. The Malfoys and Nott and Teddy stopped for a moment and greeted their co-workers.

"Thought you three weren't 'llowed out of the house," Crabbe said, giving spiteful looks to Narcissa and Lucius.

Narcissa detested the lecherous looks she was receiving from Goyle and his son.

"We're here on business for the Dark Lord," Nott told him.

Lucius was furious, and badly wished he had a wand. Crabbe would never dare speak to him this way if he was armed. These mouth-breathing morons had been his closest friends in his days at Hogwarts, much the way Draco had been the undisputed chief of Vincent and Gregory. But after they'd graduated, and especially during the last war, Lucius had realized that while it was fun to tote around these mindless cronies as a schoolboy, it wasn't circumspect for those friendships to carry over into adulthood. Crabbe and Goyle may be pure-bloods, but they weren't principled, or bright.

Draco was just as uncomfortable seeing Vincent and Gregory as his dad and mum were at seeing their fathers. Their last year at Hogwarts together had been terrible. He couldn't believe how disrespectful his old lackeys had become toward him. And they'd demonstrated an amorous fondness for torture that Draco had found disquieting.

Vincent and Gregory were examining Jane with blatant interest. Jane didn't ignore them the way she had when Teddy had looked her over, but rather she went and tried to hide behind Narcissa.

"Stop that," Narcissa told her.

Narcissa stepped to the side and moved herself back until she and Jane were level, and then she immediately regretted it.

Draco saw Vince whisper something into Greg's ear and cracking identical evil grins they pulled out their wands and started casting spells at Jane.

Without hesitating, Narcissa, Nott, and Teddy pulled out their own wands and pointed them at the large young men.

"Put those wands away this second," Nott hissed at them.

"Not in public, you imbeciles," Lucius said with barely suppressed rage.

Crabbe slapped his son roughly across the back of his head. "Knock it off you two. Not out here!" he bellowed.

A couple of witches and a wizard passing by were watching the group with confused faces.

Upset at being told off in front of everybody, Vince and Greg stowed their wands back in their robes.

They were so mentally deficient! It absolutely killed Draco that these idiots had completed the last year of their education before him. When he remembered all the times he'd helped them write and edit their essays, let them steal peaks at his exam papers, all the late nights he'd spent tutoring those despicable ingrates, all so they could scrape by with mere passes, it made his blood churn. Draco couldn't believe these feckless buffoons had the privilege of having wands when he didn't. Like Teddy, both of them were training to become Death Eaters, and as far as Draco was concerned it would be a sorry day indeed, when these two swelled the ranks.

"What's all the shiny stuff in your mouth?" Vince asked Jane.

The Notts and the Malfoys, who were curious about the pieces of metal adhered to her teeth, but reluctant to show their curiosity about it, looked at Jane, anticipating her answer. But instead of replying she coyly stepped behind Narcissa again. Narcissa gave an audible sigh and said, "We need to be on our way."

Mumbling insincere goodbyes to one another, the Crabbes and Goyles moved off and the rest proceeded to the art store.

* * *

They didn't spot Boothby that day, or the next. It wasn't until the fourth day, when they were supping at Lasandra's Tea Room, that they saw him and his wife eating together. As soon as they got back to their suite, Nott sent Thickness an owl telling him to send a Ministry car round the next day.

Once they had the mudblood off of their hands the Malfoys really began to relax and they did some serious shopping. They decided it would probably be wise buy each other some Christmas presents, so they split up for a good portion of the two days that Jane was with the Minister for Magic. Draco kept returning to Quality Quidditch Supplies to admire the Firebolt, and Lucius, borrowing Cissa's wand, for it would've been suicidal not to, made a couple of trips into Knockturn Alley to purchase some rare, expensive, and illicit potion ingredients that the Dark Lord had ordered him to buy. The Dark Lord had informed Lucius that he and his family would soon begin assisting him with an aggressive, daily regiment of magical experiments on Jane.

Draco didn't spend much gold on himself, though his parents had given him loads of it. He did find a gorgeous silver flask with a matching cigarette case, and bought it for himself. He bought his mother a superlative chiffon scarf and a pair of ruby earrings for Christmas. And he got his father a sleek, glossy pipe that came with a supple leather pouch that had an assortment of pockets. Inside, Lucius could store the pipe, tobacco, and a gleaming pick, reamer, and tamper. Lucius already had one of these, but this new one had some built-in spells that helped keep the tobacco fresh and he thought his dad might appreciate it.

After he'd purchased his father the pipe kit Draco went to Flourish and Blotts. Lately Draco had started to feel that books were an escape rivaled only by flying. Well, that is, unless he wanted to start drinking heavily the way his dad did. But he didn't want to do that. He reckoned one inebriate in the family was about all his poor mum could handle.

Draco found a novel that he thought his dad would like. The synopsis seemed promising. It was an adventure mystery story, about a wizard who invents a spell that allows the caster to travel to the future, but when another wizard finds out about the spell, he kidnaps the inventor's wife and daughter and tries to coerce him into giving him the incantation. Will he manage to save them, and keep this dastardly villain from wrecking everyone's future?

After he'd purchased the book for his father and a few for himself as well, he was on his way out the door when a display caught his eye. He saw that a new Pure-blood Passion novel had been published.

Smirking to himself, Draco picked it up and examined the cover. His mother loved this sappy mush, though she only read them in secret. When he was fourteen he'd found her stash and read quite a few of them. Once he'd gotten used to the flowery, euphemistic language of them, he'd found the sex scenes titillating; he thought he'd learned a thing or two from them, the least of which was that women had a completely different take on sex than men. Draco chuckled to himself when he remembered his father's reaction when Lucius caught him reading one.

He was hiding in one of the remoter corners of the manor, down on the second floor of the west wing. Lucius had walked up softly behind him and, unbeknownst to Draco, leaned over his shoulder to figure out what his son was reading, closeted so far from his parents. Draco was startled out of his wits when he was suddenly jerked from a sultry scene by the sound of his father laughing.

He'd immediately, foolishly, tried to hide the book under his leg, and could feel his face burning with humiliation; but Lucius, still laughing fit to burst, had just seated himself next to Draco and then, calming down a bit, asked, "Learning anything useful?"

Seeing the amusement in his dad's eye, Draco relaxed a bit and said, "Yeah. Women are bloody mad."

This set Lucius off on another peal of eye-watering mirth, and this time Draco joined him.

Lucius took the book from him and looked it over. "Have you gotten to the part where Hubris and Dettlemeyer duel each other?"

Draco was overcome with laughter again and asked, "You've read it?"

Lucius, chuckling lightly, responded, "Sometimes I skim them, though I often just read the sex scenes." He neglected to mention that he was fond of reading them aloud to Narcissa as a form of pre-foreplay. It drove her wild.

"Is this how women really see sex?" Draco asked. It was the first time his father had introduced the subject and he didn't want to squander it.

"Well," Lucius, hesitated a bit, wanting to give him an answer that was precise. "Yes and no, son. I believe that for women, sex _is_ quite different than it is for men, but this," and he held the book up, "is a blatant exaggeration of what a sexual experience is really like for both a man and a woman. Men can be content with just…well," Lucius fastened his grey eyes on Draco's, a virtual replica of his own, "_fucking_." It was the crudest thing he'd ever heard his father say. "But women are rarely up for just that. They want to be…well," and he held up the book again, "made love to."

"Is it, I mean," Draco swallowed, "is it…_hard_…to make love to a woman?"

"Well, it's something you have to learn; it's a skill see, like potion making, or spell casting, or even riding a broom. It's almost an art," Lucius told him, his voice taking on a serious tone. "It's a duty sometimes, but a pleasure as well."

"A _duty_," Draco repeated, his surprise undisguised.

"Well, because…sometimes, if you're tired you won't feel up to it, but if your wife needs it…then, yes," Lucius said, concise, nodding, and he held his son's eyes again, "a good relationship is based on give and take, Draco. Expectations met and, when you're able to, exceeded. But don't think it isn't fun. It is, Draco. When you're old enough and ready, sex is wonderful."

That's how his father had always been. A lesson imparted at every opportunity and Draco absorbed every word, imbibed them, until his father's every belief was his own.

Lucius got up then, the lesson was over, and, holding out the book to him, said, "Don't let your mother catch you reading that."

"Yes, sir." Draco took it back from him.

He wondered if his mum knew that a new one had been published. He'd probably better mention it to his dad. Draco couldn't get it for her; that would be too embarrassing for both of them, but he thought his dad should. It would make a good Christmas present for her.

Draco heard a familiar giggle behind him, and, emitting a low sigh of resignation, he put the smutty book back on the display and turned around.

"Hey, Pansy," he said.

"Hello, Draco," she said, and giggled again, exposing her crooked teeth. "Do you like the Pure-blood Passion books?"

Draco looked his ex-girlfriend up and down, making her bristle with discomfort at his scrutiny.

Instead of speaking to her, he just shook his head, pleased to see that he still had the power to affect her.

"Yes, I think they're mindless rubbish personally," she said, trying to adopt a pedantic tone that Draco found nauseating.

He ranked running into Pansy right up there with meeting up with Crabbe and Goyle, though for completely different reasons. Pansy, he noticed, had cut her short brown hair even shorter. He took in her small, light brown eyes, her wide bulbous nose and spotty chin and forehead, and wondered why he'd ever dated her in the first place. It was probably her breasts he decided as he looked her over; she had pretty large ones.

Knowing precisely how she would react, Draco said, "My mum loves the Passion series."

"Yeah, I sort of like them too. I mean, please don't mention it to anyone, because I wouldn't want people getting the wrong idea, you know, but sometimes I just love to curl up beside a big crackling fire, with a hot cup of tea, and I just read 'em all the way through, you know," she backtracked swiftly, not even bothering to breathe in her attempt to negate her previous contempt for something that the man of her dreams mum loved.

And then, for entertainment purposes only, Draco countered, "I think they're pretty stupid myself."

"Yeah, me too," she conversed. "I've only read a couple of them."

"Right," he said tonelessly.

He just stood there for a moment, looking blankly at her, clearly bored. He could see the cogs winding and coiling behind her eyes, while she struggled to think of a topic of conversation that would keep him engaged, interested in her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, apparently at a loss for something clever to say.

"Shopping," he replied tersely, and held up his shopping bag.

"Me too," she said, and then she lifted her hands. She looked down at them, and appeared shocked to find them so disobligingly empty. "Well, I just got here, so I haven't bought anything yet." And she gave a pathetic, fake little laugh.

She was such an idiot. She'd followed him around like a puppy their entire seventh year, and though he'd refused to date her openly again, a few times he'd taken her to the dark empty dungeons in the bowels of the castle and snogged her while she let him grope her chest. She hadn't let him go further south than that, not that his attempts were anything more than half-hearted. He just wanted some experience, or at least, the satisfaction of knowing that he'd gone that far.

"I'll let you get on with it then," he said, mimicking his father's most disinterested drawl. "I'm meeting up with my father and mother."

"Oh, are you're parents here?" she asked excitedly. She'd never met his parents, as she didn't exactly belong to the same set as the Malfoys, but Draco knew she was dying to meet them. When he had been in a relationship with her, she'd often told him that she wanted him to introduce her to them on Platform 9 ¾, but he'd always managed to avoid doing so. By the grace of Merlin.

He just nodded and took a step closer to the exit. He held up his hand and said, "See ya' later, Parkinson." He caught a glimpse of her hurt expression at his formal use of her surname before he walked out of the store.

* * *

Jane stopped her gimpy gait and gaped expressionlessly at a large framed picture that had been adhered to a tall brick wall. The Malfoys were leading her down Charring Cross Road, for Lucius was positive that if they went one street over they would find a better place to hail a taxi for the train station. Passing pedestrians were staring in frank amazement at his and Draco's robes, but they didn't pay them any heed.

"Come on, Poisson," Narcissa rebuked her. "We need to hurry and catch the 10:55."

"Why?" Jane asked, not removing her eyes from the poster.

"So we can get home," Lucius explained. She was thicker than Henderson's Magically Hardy Adhesive Glue.

"I's wanna see it," Jane said. "Can we's go?"

All three of them looked at one another, slightly bewildered.

"See what? Go where?" Lucius asked.

Jane, unhelpfully, pointed at the big advertisement.

The Malfoys followed her finger and looked at the picture she was studying. It looked like a group of scantily clad adolescents lined up facing the camera. Like every muggle photograph they were posing in stationary stupidity. In large writing above the muggles it said: HOW DO I LOATHE THEE? LET ME COUNT THE WAYS, and then below these words, in even bigger writing: 10 things I hate about you.

"It's a picture Poisson, we can look at it, but we can't go inside of it," Lucius said, baffled at her strange request.

Lucius thought, for a moment, that Jane rolled her eyes.

"It's a flicker, Mr. Malfoy. A cimena," she told him. "I's wanna go."

The Malfoys had no idea what she was talking about. Draco shifted his new broom from his right shoulder to his left, annoyed at this cryptic delay. The Malfoys had used magic to transport all of their luggage and the new things they'd bought back to the manor. But Draco wasn't about to let go of the Firebolt, not for a second.

"What the hell is a flicker, Poisson? If it's some muggle nonsense, you can forget about it," Draco told her.

"It's bein' a movin' picture, like a's play," she said quietly. "Is so funny, some of 'em, an' I's love 'em. Please? Mr. Dumbledore and Sirius be takin's me all of a time!"

The Malfoy were rapidly feeling enraged at her request. They'd heard of these moving pictures before, but they'd be damned if they would ever willingly sit through one. It was common knowledge that they were like plays except they weren't any actors actually present, just some soft, white wall. To sit in the dark, and spend a few hours breathing in the same air as a large auditorium of stinking muggles, sounded nothing short of torture. And these moving pictures sounded uncomfortably close to magic for the Malfoys liking.

Lucius leaned down and spat angrily at the stupid girl, "We don't care what those two mudblood-loving traitors did to keep you happy! We'll never take you anywhere so closely connected to the muggle world and that's an end to it! And don't mention those vile idiots again, if you know what's good for you!"

He put his hand on her back and pushed her forward, being careful not to do it too roughly, lest she fall over. "Get a move on. Now!"

And they proceeded home, without further incident.


	12. Unprepared

Okay, I posted this chapter before and then I decided to delete. Here it is, once more, very slightly revised. If you've already read it, then don't reread it expecting many differences, because there really aren't many. I've had a touch of writer's block the past couple of weeks, however, the muse has decided to grace me with her presence once more, and hopefully she had such a satisfying vacation that she'll stick around for a while. So wish me luck! Remember, everyone loves reviews, including me. Thank you.

**Unprepared**

**August 3rd, 1998**

Draco was high. He was high above the earth, his home, and, momentarily, his troubles.

His new Firebolt was pretty damn amazing! Slicing through the cool air of elevated altitudes was a rush unlike any other. He'd spent his entire fourth and fifth year of school begging his dad for one of these-it had destroyed him that Potter had one when he didn't-and he knew he'd finally gotten it by guilt. Not that he was necessarily trying to make his parents feel guilty.

He was so far off the ground today he wouldn't be surprised to see one of those insane muggle thingies, the huge ones made of _metal_, flying past him. When he was younger he'd hadn't been allowed to go much higher than the trees, but since the Dark Lord didn't care about the International Statute of Secrecy, Draco could soar with the eagles with complete impunity.

He liked coming up here and gazing at the horizons. He knew with the Firebolt between his knees it would only take him a few hours to reach them. This was a pointless, unrealistic fantasy, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from indulging in it from time to time. He just wanted to leave his life behind. He wanted to fly away.

Draco couldn't believe how drastically everything had changed in the past two years. There had been one bad omen, he remembered. On the evening of his fifteenth birthday, right after the Dark Lord had returned to power, his dad's Dark Mark had started burning during Draco's birthday supper. They were going to start cutting the cake soon, but his father told him that his master was calling him and he had to leave.

"Can I come, Dad?" he had asked. He cringed when he remembered how naïve he'd been at that point.

His father had fixed him with a look that was partially proud but there was something else in it too. Something he hadn't really been able to recognize at the time. It was sort of like the way his father had looked at Draco when he'd had to be hospitalized for Dragon Pox when he was nine. Now Draco understood that wary look for what it was and he wasn't at all surprised that he hadn't been able to discern it when he was newly fifteen. It was fear, and that wasn't an emotion he was accustomed to seeing in his father's eyes. Not back then anyway.

"It's my birthday! Can't I meet the Dark Lord? It would be a great present!" he'd insisted. He usually expected to get his way, because he so often did.

But his father had used that tone, that special one that meant he would brook little argument, and Draco shouldn't push his luck.

So his father had left them, and he still hadn't returned by 11:00. Draco had gone to bed that evening feeling a bit disappointed that his dad had to leave on his birthday, but still very proud of him for being a friend of the Dark Lord's.

But he'd woken up in the middle of the night, something he rarely did. He wasn't sure what had called him out of his deep easy slumber. But he got out of bed and went, for some inexplicable reason, to his parent's room. Their bed was empty but the door to the lavatory was half open and there was a stretched rectangle of candlelight on the floor, lighting his way to the unknown scene inside. He could hear his mum and dad talking; their voices were pretty low so he wasn't sure why he'd awakened, or why there was a heavy lump of anxiety in his stomach as he softly crossed the room on his quiet naked feet.

Making sure he stood outside the pool of light undulating on the floor, he was paralyzed by the grisly scene inside. Blood, his dad's blood, seemed to be all he could see; the drops and rivulets of the crimson liquid glared vividly against the light grey coloring of the large marble lavatory. His dad was sitting on the broad lip of the bath, bare-chested and battered. His mother stood in front of him wearing a buttery night dress that was floor-length and lacy. Draco saw that she had pinned her thick golden hair in a slapdash bun, and it was one of the few times that he'd seen her looking anything but impeccably coifed. She was holding a large blue phial in one hand and with the other she was gently, steadily dabbing at her husband's many cuts and bruises with a bloodied cloth. The pungent smell of the antiseptic potion that filled Draco's nostrils was a familiar one. He watched them horrified and utterly transfixed.

"I had to tell him Cissa," Lucius said. His hands were trembling with the pain and the after effects of the trauma.

"Why didn't you lie to him," his mother had inquired softly, a touch of disgust in her voice.

"I _can't_ lie to him. No one can. He kept asking and asking, and I tried to evade him," Lucius said, bringing up his trembling hands to rub over eyes. "But there was nothing I could do," he told her. "I didn't think he'd be that upset about an old book. I mean, it was obviously an object with immense power, but… I don't know, Cissa," his voice was shaking badly at that point. "He was angrier than I've ever seen him. I thought my life was over. I thought I'd never see you and the boy again."

His dad, rather roughly it seemed to Draco, pushed his mothers graceful, blood-splattered hands away from his body and he reached out his long white arms and hooked her haphazardly around her slim waist. He watched as his dad pulled his mum down to his lap, buried his head into the corner of her neck and saw his shoulders began to heave. Draco heard an odd noise reverberating out from the lavatory.

The entire world seemed to be falling away from beneath Draco as he realized that his father, his fearless, powerful father, was actually _crying_. As quietly as he could Draco had slipped back to his bedroom, because the only thing worse than knowing his dad could cry, would be for his father to know that _Draco_ knew he could cry.

After that day, Draco stopped thinking of the Dark Lord as his father's friend, and he began to understand why his father referred to him as his master. Little did he then suspect that a mere one year later the Dark Lord would become his own master as well.

Draco took a nose dive at a dizzying spin, slicing through the air like Sectumsempra through satin, and pulled up just before he reached the ground. Once he was back on earth, back home and with his problems all before him, he headed up a shaded path that led to the garden. He was parched, and knew his mum would have some refreshments waiting at the nook.

"'Elp!"

Draco hesitated for a moment, and then he stepped off the path and made his way through the spiny undergrowth, to the coniferous tree in which he knew he'd find her sitting. She was spectacularly stupid, this little freak.

"'Elp!" she called again right before he came into sight.

She saw him then and directed her cries for assistance at him. "Would you's 'elp me down?"

She wasn't even that far off the ground, her head was just a bit higher than Draco's own, but obviously being a cripple made it impossible for her to jump down safely. For the life of him, Draco couldn't figure how any person as brain-dead as Jane could have survived for even five years, let alone twelve. Jane climbed up this tree about every other day and couldn't get manage to get down. He thought, by now, she would have either worked out which branches to use as a ladder to lower herself safely back to the ground, or she would have realized that she should quit going up the tree in the first place.

"You're a complete moron, you know that don't you?" he asked her.

"Please 'elp me."

"Why do think mudbloods are so stupid? Got any half-brewed theories sloshing around that empty head of yours?"

"Please 'elp me's down," she repeated.

"I'll help you down…if you say, 'I'm a stupid mudblood.'"

"Please," she said softly in her husky voice. Draco didn't think her deep voice matched her size. It wasn't masculine, really, it just didn't seem right that someone so immature should have such a grown-up sounding voice.

"Poisson, why do you _always_ climb this tree when you know you can't get down?"

She didn't say anything but her lower lip started to quiver. It seemed like she couldn't get through one day without crying at least five times. And sure enough, as Draco stood there watching, a small tear started sliding down her mucky face.

Merlin's beard she was so filthy! Draco looked her over and saw she'd already ruined the brand new gown his parents had purchased for her in Diagon Alley. The hem was ripped and caked with dirt, and crusted remnants of her breakfast and lunch spattered the bodice. All this combined with her dusky skin and he thought she really put the 'mud' in mudblood. He hated getting her out of this tree, having to touch her, but knew he was duty-bound to do it so she wouldn't wind up breaking her revoltingly precious neck.

"Please?" she asked again with a trembling voice.

"I told you. Say, 'I'm a stupid mudblood', and I'll get you down," he told her, vicious and inclement, his pale eyes malicious slits.

She put her forehead against the trunk she was clinging to and started crying harder. "Please gets me down."

"Say it first, and then I'll get you down."

She just kept crying. She was a stubborn little thing.

"I'll give you one more chance, Poisson. Say 'I'm a stupid mudblood', or you're going to find out whether these woods really are infested with werewolves at the full moon," he said. It was a lie, of course. No Malfoy would ever tolerate a werewolf in their woods, and he honestly wasn't sure whether the moon was full this night or not. But she didn't know that, and he was pleased to see her eyes widening in fear and panic. With the instincts of a born predator, remembering what Scabior had told the Dark Lord the day she was delivered, he added, "Greyback runs around back here sometimes, too."

"Please!" she wailed. "Please gets me down!"

"Fine, I'm going back to the house then," Draco said, and he started walking away.

"Wai'!" she sobbed urgently. "Please don't be's leavin' me 'ere! Please, come ba'!"

He walked a few more paces and then stopped and turned around.

"Come on, Poisson," he said softly. "Just admit that you're a stupid mudblood. We all know it, including you."

"Okay, I's say it! I's a stupid mudblood! Now please be 'elpin' me's down now!" she cried.

Having extracted his cruel, but necessary, toll- and not feeling nearly as satisfied by it as he'd thought he would-Draco crossed the small clearing to the tree. He stepped onto the lowest branch, getting himself level with her and wrapped his arm around her. She smelled awful, sweaty and sour. Sometimes these unpleasant scents mingled with other mysterious odors that Draco refused to try and identify.

Jane clung to him with all her might, one tiny arm around his neck, the other clutching tightly around his middle, until he had carefully lowered himself and then her to the ground. Luckily she was very light. Draco doubted she even came to seven stone. Once she could feel that her foot and her prosthesis were both planted firmly on the moist earth she swiftly released him, and with a mumbled, rather doleful, 'fanks', headed toward the garden, swiping her foul, sap-sticky hands over her dirt-colored cheeks.

He strode a little ways behind her as she headed into the garden, and watched her walking. He despised her limp as much as everything else about her. The idea of her deformity sickened him. He didn't understand how anything as pathetic as her would _want_ to exist. Why didn't she just off herself, and put him and his parents out of their misery?

When he was a little boy, Draco had often had a certain idea. He'd mulled it over many times, despite knowing that it would never happen. When he was young he'd thought that if, for whatever reason (a reason he could never come up with), some ordinary muggle were to come into his home, look around at their beautiful manor, see his parents using magic, come face-to-face with the glorious portraits of their numerous ancestors, get a glimpse of the wall-to-wall tapestries that depicted their voluminous family-tree and lineage, and just really understand what he and his family were, the height of purity and power, then that muggle would go back to whatever dingy shack it came from and look around it and, once it was forced to recognize how dismal its' own pointless, dreary, magic-less existence truly was, it would inevitably decide to end its' own life. He'd been persuaded of the truth of this idea with a passionate conviction that's common in children and rare in adults. He hadn't really remembered that immature thought in years, but now that Jane was living with them, it had come back to him.

He and Jane rounded the last garden path and headed into the courtyard toward the nook where his parents were sitting. When his parents saw them his mum poured them each a glass of lemonade.

"You sit there," Draco told her, pointing to the chair positioned closer to the fountain.

"Why?" she asked.

"I'm not sitting downwind of you," he said simply.

"Poisson, what have you done to your new dress?" his mother asked.

Jane plopped herself gracelessly into her appointed seat, and just shrugged, as though she didn't know or care what had happened to it.

"The Dark Lord is coming to see you in a little while, Poisson," Lucius told her.

She didn't say or do anything to indicate that she'd heard him. She just sipped her lemonade and helped herself to one of the pears from a bowl in the middle of the table.

"Did you slip away yesterday evening?" Narcissa asked her.

Lucius and Draco both looked at Jane to see if she would answer the question. She didn't _have_ to tell them anything, not really. The Malfoys were simply her caregivers, not her masters, and her duties to the Dark Lord were really between her and him. However, since she was in their care, they all knew that, in a lateral way, they were responsible for her ability to slip away.

Jane nodded, and they all experienced a release of tension in their shoulders, chests, and bellies.

It seemed cruel to the Malfoys, that they might be held accountable for anything as arbitrary as Jane's "power" appeared to be. But there it was.

"How are you enjoying your Firebolt?" Lucius asked Draco.

Draco lifted his long arms over his head and stretched. Then he casually crossed them behind his head. "It corners on a sickle," he answered.

"Good," Lucius said.

Draco watched his dad gently twirling the dark contents of his wine glass in between sips.

Bellatrix appeared in the doorway leading to the conservatory. She didn't come out completely, just hovered there, noncommittally, and called out, "When did you say He's coming Cissy?"

Narcissa, her back to Bella, rolled her eyes a bit and answered, "In about an hour, Bella." She didn't raise her voice the way her sister did. That was such a common way to behave, and when they were growing up, Bella had known this too.

Bellatrix must have heard Narcissa because Draco could see her mouth spread in an indecent, gappy smile, and she turned back into the conservatory. Through the glass walls Draco watched his aunt heading into the house. She was practically skipping, he noted in mild disgust.

Draco felt his mother should have been more honest when she spoke of her sister, languishing in wizard's prisons. When he'd come home for his summer holiday, right after he'd learned of his father's imprisonment, he'd known he would finally meet this infamous aunt of his. His first thought on seeing her was that she wasn't pretty anymore. In fact with her hollowed eyes, slovenly hair, and careless attire, his first impression of her was that she seemed a bit less Black than he'd been led to believe, and a good deal more feral. Sometimes first impressions are spot on. He'd learned, over the years, why she'd received a life sentence in Azkaban. But torturing a couple of people into insanity, all in the name of restoring the magnificent Dark Lord, had seemed so noble and a bit glamorous to him then, when it was all just words.

The reality of the Cruciatus Curse was an entirely different thing in all its panoramic, sick-making sounds and scents. He hadn't known that after thirty minutes of muscle-clenching agony blood vessels begin to rupture, nasal cavities start to leak mucus and blood, bladders release their contents, and, eventually, so will bowels. Draco didn't know that after listening to screams of anguish for so long, they would embed themselves in his skull, so that hours later, no matter how exhausted he might be, the strangled, ear-splitting echoes would still be clashing and colliding in his aching mind.

"So Poisson," Lucius said, "do you think you managed to gather some useful information for our master?"

She shrugged again.

Over the past couple of months of caring for Jane, the Malfoys had noticed that one of her few good qualities was her silence. She almost never spoke unless she absolutely had no other choice. She hummed incessantly and was outrageously uncouth, but other than that she didn't intentionally draw attention to herself. Well, that is, if you didn't count her stench. She always bobbed her head up or down to answer yes and no questions. She also had this irritating way of shrugging, even if they were asking her a question that other people might use as an invitation to give their opinion. Jane would just vaguely lift her shoulders. They could only assume that her extreme ignorance of the English language prevented her from understanding the words they used that contained more than two syllables. When they had discussed this among themselves Lucius had said, "Well, I have to say I prefer a laconic mudblood to a garrulous one." And Narcissa and Draco had instantly voiced their agreement. It was better all around that she spoke too little than too much.

"Did you have a good time playing in the woods, Poisson?" Narcissa asked her.

"She got stuck up that tree again," Draco imparted rancorously, glaring curses at her.

"It's not safe for you to climb trees, Poisson," Narcissa said calmly, in mock concern.

"You're going to fall and get hurt," Lucius chimed in, sounding equally indifferent.

They were all looking at her to see how she would respond.

Jane just pulled her good leg, the left one, onto her chair, pulled her dress up and started picking at a scab on her knee, giving everybody at the table an unobstructed view of her new white knickers. Lucius and Draco, who had been exposed to these types of unseemly displays before, scowled at each other, sharing an unspoken revulsion of her immodesty, and a tinge of shame on her behalf, since she obviously had none.

"Poisson!" Narcissa exclaimed, actually raising her voice. She was angry at herself for being incensed to such unrefined measures, but mostly at Jane, for making her behave in this brash way. "Put your dress down! How many times do I have to tell you that it's indecorous to expose your legs above your knees?"

Jane put her leg down.

Very slowly, as though he was addressing a person of substandard intelligence, and well, he was really, Draco fastened his cold gray eyes on her and said, "Indecorous… means… _not_… _good_."

His parents started to snicker but they're amusement was swiftly transformed to revulsion when they saw Jane stick her finger in her nose. All three of them groaned, and simultaneously cried, "Stop that!"

Jane got up and wandered toward the fountain. She seemed to love the bright blue and green fish living in its murky depths. It made sense that she had a preference for the slippery creatures as she probably acknowledged them as kin.

"It's so degrading to have that thing here," Lucius said, quite monotonously Draco thought.

Lately Draco had begun to realize that he was angry with his mum and dad. It wasn't an incendiary type of anger that inflamed his mind, but merely a disapproving sort of cool discontent that lapped icily in his stomach. His entire life, his dad and mum reared him in a thoughtless bubble of innocence and indulgence. He'd been petted and pampered, puffed-up with praises of his positive perfections. He was wholly unprepared for the world of the Dark Lord and his aggressive followers. He now knew that his parents had been downright remiss in educating him. They should have exposed him to the…less appetizing aspects of torture and violence from an earlier age.

In their defense, Draco knew his parents had never once entertained a hope that the Dark Lord would rise again. He couldn't count the number of times he'd heard his father lamenting the loss of his master, the one wizard with enough power to restore the pure-bloods to their proper status. But Draco had simply thought that reinstating their status would be limited to more bureaucratic practices, like not allowing mudbloods to attend Hogwarts, and making sure only the ethnically pure attained the highest positions in government and in the work force. Over the past year, since that night on the astronomy tower, the Dark Lord _had_ done these things. Albeit in the messiest manner possible.

"What is that, the third dress It's ruined this week?" Lucius asked.

He didn't really care about the dress. Martha, it transpired, had mastered quite a bit of magic that pertained to the mending and stain removal of garments. The Malfoys themselves rarely had need for such things themselves, as they took meticulous care of all their possessions. They also replaced their wardrobes every few months, but Martha couldn't afford to do this. They weren't sure exactly how many children she had- it might have been anywhere from six to a round dozen as far as they were concerned, which wasn't at all. But even if Martha couldn't repair Jane's tattered dresses, the Malfoys would have just ordered some new ones from Twilfitt and Tatting's.

Draco was so sick of the mudblood. He knew he and his parents had little else to say to one another. Discussing their own lives, for which more than a few comparisons to the damaged condition of Jane's dresses could have been fairly made, wasn't really an option for the Malfoys. So they simply discussed her, criticized her, admonished her, used her to make them feel better about themselves. They were also beginning to realize that Jane could potentially be on the brink of having a higher status with the Dark Lord than they did, or even would for a long time yet.

It wasn't as though Draco had thought the Dark Lord was going to be some fluffy, chummy man that would pinch his cheeks or keep sweets in his pocket to pass out to those who made clever jokes or pleased him. He'd just thought…a Death Eater meeting would be more like a formal dinner party, with plenty of polite conversation between sophisticated, well-dressed pure-bloods. He imagined everyone in attendance would all have the same cultured accents as him and his parents. Perhaps there might be an occasional bawdy joke spoken in French to excuse its lewd nature. They would discuss things in a civilized manner, make toasts with good liqueur, and there would be… a level of equality. And he never thought they would be forced to host these gory meetings against their will.

But however disappointed Draco might feel about his mum and dad glossing over the nastier aspects of the Death Eater life, he also was unspeakably grateful to them. Thank Merlin they'd had the sense to marry one another, and give him an unblemished bloodline. By now he knew that, no matter what lowly position they might retain in their master's ranks, their spotless heredity lent them an iron-clad lifeline. That is, as long as they all kept their heads down and gave the right answers, which, given that they were all Slytherins, the ability to do those things was pretty much inherent.


	13. Arachnophobia

**Arachnophobia**

**August 15th, 1998**

Narcissa lovingly caressed her string of milky pearls, willing their soft, almost malleable, texture to soothe her. She examined her face in the wide mirror attached to her ivory-colored vanity, and compared the luminous glow of the creamy orbs in her hand to the pallor of her skin. A corner of her pink mouth flickered upward with satisfaction, and the undiluted joy of self-love. She'd often been told how young she looked for her age and Cissa lapped up these compliments, the way those on the brink of death by dehydration guzzle water. She was still quite beautiful and she knew it.

Every morning, no matter what the day's gloomy forecast augured, she sat in front of her mirror and made up her face until it was the brightest ornament of every room. She made sure every hair of her brow was in its proper place, either smoothed down or removed. She curled her honeyed eyelashes, and darkened them, just a bit, to give them more length, and to add an extra element of depth to her ice blue eyes. She had a panoply of powders, some packed and others loose, with an array of brushes, sponges, and applicators, lined neatly up, like obedient servants waiting to do her bidding. She worked in the decadent creams, gently rubbing and patting, until every irreverent crease was filled in, obliterated. She dabbed and powdered away every natural variation of pigment and every stray lentigo. All of these magical mixtures, whether paid for or hand-made, were a more cleansing ablution than the hottest, sudsiest bath.

Narcissa's face was one of her most fortuitous attributes. She admired the curves of her high cheeks, the dainty shape of her small pointed chin, and she particularly loved the diaphanous sloping of her nose. She had a thing about noses, for she believed that a bad nose could destroy an otherwise perfect face. She studied them the way scholars assess runes. The subtle dints, the zig-zagging ridges, and the lamentable protrusions fascinated her. She didn't care for ninety-nine out of one hundred that she analyzed-or even less maybe- but she was exceedingly pleased with her own delicate, unobtrusive one.

Narcissa had a very narrow concept of beauty. Her small family and a few of the better looking witches and wizards in her social circle were the only standards she could justify holding. Pale skin, the whiter the better, was the main criteria, blonde hair, if it could at all be managed, and slight features, even for men; although, men could usually achieve success with a more robust chin and hardier nose. But thin, fine-boned frames were a must for both sexes. Not like some of those churlish, hulking wizards that served the Dark Lord, like Macnair and Rowle. They made her shudder in revulsion. Lucius's upright, rigid build was her ideal; he was taller than her, and the breadth of his shoulders eclipsed her own, but only by the slenderest degrees.

She often wondered which would be worse, to stand in front of a crowd with a naked face, or with a naked body. She was so used to seeing herself with a thick coating of cream over her skin that she could barely stand to look at it when it wasn't covered. It just seemed the most indecent thing imaginable.

Fortunately, she would never have to make that sort of choice. This thought was all that comforted her some days. No matter how old she grew, Cissa could always fall back on her dressing table. It would always support her, prop her up in times of despair. It was more than routine, much more than a ritual to her; it was the most pious prayer, an indispensable and unparalleled benediction. Even the morning after Lucius received his sentencing for Azkaban had found her here, for her mirror and her pots of epidermal potions were her sanctuary. Eventually decay would overcome her magical elixirs, but she wouldn't allow that to happen for another couple of decades. Her mother and her grandmother were her testaments of this happy fact. While it was true that time was her beauty's worst enemy, a shameful destroyer of youth and freshness, it was possible to stave it away until the eleventh hour. Narcissa wouldn't dwell on it. This truth was tantamount to the total collapse of her carefully constructed peace of mind.

For many hours, as a little girl, but even more so as an adolescent, her mother and her maternal grandmother, had taken her to their own dressing tables and tutored her in the arts of beauty, grace, and poise. They had given her endless lectures, stressing the importance of taking care of her looks, and how she should go about highlighting it with the aid of cosmetics, jewelry, clothing, and accessories. They had indefatigably defined the exquisiteness of her golden tresses, her alabaster skin, and the sweet fragility of her brow, cheeks, mouth, nose and chin. Andromeda and Bella sat through these tedious monologues as well, but neither of them for as long as she. It was her arctic irises, and her fair, silky locks that singled her out from her sisters, who both had the misfortune to be born with brown hair and brown eyes. So she was the _piece de resistance_, the one who would make the most prestigious conquest; and Narcissa had certainly lived up to her birthright and made her family proud.

In the past two years alone, Narcissa felt that she had aged unforgivably. It was Lucius's fault of course, for going to prison and making it necessary for Draco to join the Death Eaters, before he'd even reached the age of accountability. But she would never speak this thought aloud. Never. Acknowledging Lucius's shortcomings as a husband, a man, and a wizard would be even worse than their existing.

That was the problem right there. A husband, a man, and a wizard. Those, she knew, were the proper order, but not to him. Not to any man, probably. To Lucius it went: wizard, man, husband. It was why he couldn't make love to her, or stop drinking long enough to sober up for _three seconds_. Men defined their identities to their outward appearances and capabilities. Lucius was only what the world perceived him to be, in skill and rank. Without those he was like a nutless shell, cracked, eaten, empty. But Narcissa was a mother and a wife, then a witch. She knew that with or without a wand, she would always be those things first and foremost. Lucius, though she and Draco still loved and respected him and would forever, couldn't abide without a commendable position to his name. He was still a Malfoy, a beautiful, pure-blooded Malfoy. The magic, and the proficiency and knowledge to make it and use it, were all inside of him still. This was a dark time for him, for them, yes; Narcissa couldn't deny that. But it wouldn't last forever. Life had at least taught her that much.

Narcissa hated the umbra of these ruminations and she did her best not to linger over them. She fastened the cord of pearls around her neck and then carefully selected a bracelet, a couple of rings, and a set of ear bobs to match them. She crowned it all with a lavish brooch which she pinned with care to lace of her ecru gown. She stepped away from her behemoth altar and went to the full-length mirror beside her armoire to pay homage at the shrine of her entire reflection.

Narcissa swiveled this way and that, tilting her head and hips to appraise herself from every angle available. Perfect.

She left the boudoir then, passed through the cathedral-like lavatory, and into her and Lucius's bedroom. Her lazy husband was gently snoring in the enormous four-poster bed. The satin sheets had slipped off his chest and his white-blonde hair was fanned out over the goose-down pillow. She'd been up for two hours now, bathing, dressing, and preening herself. They had a busy morning ahead of them and she wasn't about to let him shirk his duties for a lie-in.

She removed her wand from a strategically placed fold in her gown and with a broad arcing motion shifted the brocade drapes. Sunshine flooded the room, illuminating the gleaming chairs, tables, lamps, and the marble mantel of the fireplace.

Lucius began to mumble incoherently and tried to bury his face in the covers he had flung off while he slept. His slim arms fumbled in futility and then, giving up, he rolled onto his stomach and sandwiched his head between the mattress and pillow.

Narcissa sat down on the bed beside him and placed her middle and index finger on his back and began to slowly, playfully walk them up his soft skin. Nothing. She leaned down and kissed a languid, sensual from the waist of his pajama bottoms to the base of neck. He still didn't stir. Smiling even wider, Cissa pointed her wand at his bottom and whispered a steamy incantation right where his sensitive exit should be.

He started to growl and with serpentine reflexes he rolled around, grabbed her waist, and pinned her to the bed beneath him.

Her mouth was pulled back as far as it could go, exposing both rows of her lustrous teeth, and her eyes were shining with pleasure. Lucius was still growling, his blood-shot eyes narrowed to steely slots of flint.

"What sort of way is that to wake your husband, woman?" he asked in his rusty morning voice.

"The only way, apparently," she answered.

His morning breath was terrible, but, slipping her hands into his silk trousers to cup his cheeks, she leaned up and captured his lower lip between her teeth, and languorously, flicking her tongue over the juicy morsel of his mouth, pulled it out, stretched it, gently raking her teeth along the length of it.

"Hmm," he moaned.

Her legs were hanging off the bed, bound in her twisted skirt, tulle, and shift, but she longed to wrap them around him. He hadn't made love to her in two _years_, and every time he touched her their was an ignition beneath her skin and between her legs that he never doused. Would her husband never sate her again?

And sure enough, just as she knew he would, he released her and rolled away from her. Narcissa lay there for a moment, breathing hard and trying to swallow down the knot that seemed to have lodged painfully in her throat. Why didn't he want her? She had, more than once, considered donning a flimsy negligee and trying to seduce him. But if he were to reject even that overture, she would die.

Before Azkaban, she would never have allowed him to make love to her when she'd just stepped away from the labors of her toilette. Creasing her robes, mussing her hair and make-up, it would have been sacrilegious. But now…now she would gladly sit through it all again for the sake of a sweaty, vigorous roll around their magnificent bed. Even if meant chancing the Dark Lord's displeasure.

After a moment, she felt Lucius maneuver himself off the bed and then heard the lavatory door close. She stood up and began to straighten out her robes and smooth down her hair. It didn't matter. She was beautiful still and would remain so, whether she was properly made love to or not. _At least_, she consoled herself, _I know he isn't getting it somewhere else_. And he never would. She had made sure of that on their wedding night.

She left their room and made the short journey down the corridor to the spare room where Jane slept. She unlocked the door, let herself in, and used her wand to pull the heavy curtains back from the windows. She went to the bed and studied the sleeping mudblood with a detached gaze of cold disdain. But as the days agenda unfolded in her mind, her thoughts softened a bit. Having Jane here was a despicable tragedy, that was undeniably true, but experimenting on her was turning out to be a surprisingly agreeable education for them all.

The Dark Lord had brought them a vial of Riptaseura blood. It was one of the rarest substances in the world, and she, Narcissa Malfoy, had not only got to hold it, but she'd been allowed to mix up a concoction of Diosponia Descratos with it. It was, without a doubt, the most complex and challenging potion she'd ever had the pleasure to brew. It was also a darker magic than she'd ever dreamed. Delicate, dangerous, and so, so beautiful in it's all-consuming power, the entire Brewery had been effused with a soft blue glow during the last stages of its completion. Once the light had faded, and she and Lucius knew it was ready, they had carefully ladled some into a cup and handed it to the vermin to sip. If she or Lucius had drank it, then they would have spent the next twenty-four hours seeping blood from every pore and orifice of their bodies, while uncontrollable outbursts of magic shot out from their bodies, destroying every living thing within a seven kilometer radius, and then they would have died. If an ordinary muggle had drunk it, they would have simply bled to death, slowly. Jane had gotten some hiccups.

Then there had been the day their master had brought an Orb of Thanatos for the cockroach to fondle. He'd kept it sheathed carefully in a thick, black velvet cloth, and as he'd slowly unwrapped it, Cissa, Lucius, and Bellatrix had all let out loud sighs of amazement and longing. There were only three of these orbs known to be in existence, and every legend on earth traced their inception back to Merlin.

Being careful not to let it touch his skin, he had instructed the freak of nature to pick it up. She'd been scared to touch it. She always hesitated when asked to participate in a piece of powerfully dark magic. As she gazed at it, even Jane seemed drawn to it. All six of them felt compelled to touch it; that was a part of its deep magic. The glass ball encased a shadowy, shifting black smoke, while a muted crimson pulsed in the center, seeming to writhe and beckon any observer. Narcissa had used every fiber of strength to tear her eyes from it, and had to use her wand to restrain Draco from reaching out for it. He couldn't seem to rally the resolve he needed to escape that overpowering call, and, like Jane, he was taking steps toward it.

Jane had slowly crossed the room to it, lifted her small hand out for it. "Is so perty," she'd crooned softly. But just as she came close enough to pick it up, she had stopped, dropped her hand, and looked up at the Dark Lord. "What's it?"

"An Orb of Thanatos, child," he had answered her. He was more patient with Jane than Narcissa had ever dreamed he was capable. "Now touch it."

"What's it doin'?" she had asked quietly; clearly, wisely, wary.

"If you're pure of heart, then nothing," he'd answered, and then he'd laughed one of his cold, mirthless laughs that Narcissa always thought could maybe kill a baby.

Bellatrix, for some inexplicable reason, had joined his laughter. Narcissa was sure that whatever the Dark Lord had found amusing, it was something that nobody else would ever fully grasp. But, unless he was directing his cruel, mocking jibes at her, Bella always laughed when he did. She was desperate that he, and everybody else, should think she understood him completely.

"Touch it," he had commanded, his tone ringing with his authority.

Slowly, so slowly, Jane had clamped her eyes on it once more, and tentatively put the pad of her index finger on it. When nothing happened, she, seeming to grow braver, had used the palm of her hand to caress it.

"Is warm," she had told them. "Can I's holded it?"

"Be careful with it," he had said, and allowed her to take it from him.

She cradled it cautiously with both hands like a large egg, smiling at it. Narcissa could see the flickering red center of it reflecting off of Jane's glasses. Then she had done something that they rarely witnessed. She had laughed. Her laughter was the antithesis of the Dark Lord's, warm, deep, and suffused with lilting, mysterious inflections.

"S'I per of 'eart then?" she asked the room.

"No. You're unaffected by its power, Jane," the Dark Lord had informed her calmly.

"'Ow you's bein' knowed 'at?" she asked.

Bellatrix had scoffed in loud disgust at her impertinence.

But the Dark Lord didn't seem at all offended by her question. He, like the Malfoys, could detect nothing but curiosity in her voice. Not the insolence that Bella apparently imagined.

"If you were a normal person, the moment you touched it, you would have fallen to the floor and been rendered senseless. Your spirit would have been instantly transported to the underworld, and, once there, you would have been come face-to-face with the three Harbingers of Fate, mythically known as the Moirai. They then would have passed judgment over your life thus far, and only if you were found to be unsullied and innocent would you have been allowed to return to your body and continue your earthly existence. If you were found wanting, then they should have sent you to straight to Hades."

Her eyes widened with transparent astonishment as he had explained all this to her.

"You's touchin' it?" she had asked, clearly incredulous.

He laughed again, and this time Lucius and Narcissa had joined him and Bella, easily able to share his amusement at her childish ignorance.

"Nobody lays hands on them on purpose. Only the unlearned or the undisciplined will be foolish enough to deliberately handle one. I thought, for a moment, that you were being pulled in by its' magic, as I watched you cross the room for it, but when you stopped and asked me what it was, I realized that you were attracted merely by the glowing center, simple-minded as you are." Bella snorted derisively at this comment. "There are many legends in the world of magic, which describe these orbs and the terrible uses to which their powers have been put. Originally, there were seven. Three have been destroyed, three are kept well-guarded, one in China, one in Romania, and one in…_America_." His eyes narrowed on the last word. "But this one was lost. Every historical record of them clearly states that they were created right here, in Great Britain. But the countries which have them will not return them to us. So I, long ago, decided to find this one, to bring it back home, where it belongs.

"I followed the legends; broke into magical strongholds to examine ancient texts around the world. I gathered every clue, until, finally, all the pieces fell into place. I made my way to the Andes of Peru, and buried deep in the mountains, in the ruins of a crumbling temple, I followed the hieroglyphics carved into the disintegrating stones and, inevitably, I unearthed it from a heavily protected sarcophagus."

"Master," Bellatrix practically moaned, her eyes glistening with tears of love and admiration, "I wish I could have been there with You. The things You've seen and done…" She trailed off, unable to finish due to her overpowering emotions.

"Nobody has seen and done what I have, or can even comprehend the erudition of my knowledge. Nobody." He stated this simply, not exactly bragging, just laying down an indisputable fact. And even Narcissa couldn't help feeling impressed by it. Thank Morgana they had aligned themselves with him.

Sometimes Narcissa thought it was almost worth having Jane here with them, just so they could witness and participate in the Dark Lord's experiments on her. Of course, every time they gave her a poison to drink, or cast a near-fatal curse at her, or instructed her to touch an object that should have damaged, if not killed, her, Narcissa couldn't help hoping, each time, that this might be the piece of magic that would prove the exception. If Jane would only die, their lives would be much easier.

Narcissa took a few steps closer to the sleeping child and looked her over. As the ripe smell of her assaulted Cissa's nose, she scowled and retreated a bit, then sighed. How many days had it been since she'd argued and threatened Jane into the bath? Four perhaps, maybe five. She had sincerely hoped that the Dark Lord might lay down a dictum for Jane to bathe herself every day or two, but he hadn't. In fact, whenever Jane picked her nose, or broke wind, or exposed her thighs, or belched, or engaged in any unsavory conduct, he just smirked at the Malfoys, as though it were all a brilliant joke. Well, Cissa had realized ages ago that he had a rather warped sense of humor.

With a simple spell, Cissa took some dollops of water from a glass on the small stand beside the bed. She began to disperse it, in the form of a fine mist, over Jane's face. Jane immediately opened her eyes and sat up, wiping the cold moisture off of her face. Then she fixed Narcissa with a look of deepest loathing, which Narcissa returned steadfastly.

"Get in the bath, Poisson," Narcissa said.

"Why?" she asked, as she reached for her glasses and put them on.

"Because you stink," Cissa told her bluntly.

"I's do not," was her irritating reply.

"Yes you do. And we're sick of your stench, you filthy animal," Cissa said calmly, trying not to lose her cool façade in the face of Jane's impudent apathy.

"Well, I ain'," she said. "Sides, I's just 'avin' one."

Jane threw the covers off of herself and then she reached for her artificial leg. Every night she propped it up on a pillow next to her own, and then she drew the blanket up around the lower half of it, as though it were a pet or an honored guest. It might've been amusing, if it weren't so disgusting…and _odd_.

Narcissa cast her eyes at the floor when Jane lifted her nightgown and started to attach the false limb to the stub of her leg, which ended right above where her knee should have begun. Her deformity was, in Cissa's opinion, the most repulsive facet of Jane's appearance. It was grosser than her mustache and that frizzy, oily mop atop her head, which looked like an exceptionally thick, wooly cap. Her handicap was even more obscene than her dusty skin.

It took Narcissa a moment to pick up the thread of her argument. "That was five days ago, Poisson. You have to start bathing more frequently. This isn't an acceptable way for you to take of yourself. A lady should always make sure she smells good."

"I ain' a lady, 'member?"

_You're telling me_, she thought.

"Nonetheless, you are female. Members of the opposite sex don't like females that smell as though they've just finished playing in the toilet."

After she'd climbed down from the bed, Jane looked at Cissa and asked, "So's, would I's been doin' it for Mr. Malfoy, your son, or the Dark Lord?"

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at this remark. "Don't you dare get cheeky with me, you perverse little cripple," she admonished, her voice rising a bit with her anger. She could feel her face flushing in her anger at Jane's remark, and her heart quickened. "You need to take a bath. Now, Poisson. Clean yourself up before you come for breakfast."

"Or what?"

"Or you won't get any."

Jane merely scoffed at this hollow threat.

"And then I'll have Lucius and Draco throw you in the shower, naked, and hose you down with hot water," Cissa told her, calm and in control once more. Since neither reasoning, nor the simple satisfaction of actually being clean and smelling good, would work on the brat, Cissa had to fall back on this old threat. Morgana only knew what measures Cissa would have to take, if this type of intimidation ever lost its credit with the grubby child. Probably she, with the help of Bellatrix, would wind up disrobing her, and take turns holding her down in the bath while the other soaped her off. She fervently hoped it would never come to that, but what else could they do? They already had to keep at least two or three feet away from Jane just to skirt the radius of her noxious miasma.

Thankfully, Jane's eyes tinged with fear at Cissa's words, and she limped to the lavatory. Narcissa waited until she heard the bathwater running, before she went to wake Draco.

%%%%

"The Gorlatsia's looking good," The Dark Lord said, idly stirring the cauldron before him. "Nice green shade. Excellent."

He moved to another, smaller cauldron, and used his wand to gently siphon some of the hot, bubbling liquid out and then let it fall back into the large pot. "This is too thick!"

"My lord, I haven't added the petrified warthog stones to it yet," Narcissa rapidly explained, her voice slightly constricted with her anxiety.

"Shouldn't you have added them a few hours ago?"

"Not according to the copy of Potentia's Guide to Darker Potion Making that you gave me to use," she told him. "The potion has to simmer for another six hours, and then I have to-"

"Alright, alright," he cut her off. "Do you have Thursday's list of spells?"

"It's here, my lord," Lucius informed him collectedly.

The Dark Lord looked over the sheet of parchment that Malfoy handed him and ran his eyes down the line of spells.

"Who performed the Clabersternium Curse on her?"

"I did, My Lord," Bella stated hurriedly, her eyes shining with pride.

"Are you sure you cast it properly?" he asked, his voice thick with doubt.

Bella's face grew quite red at this inquiry. "Yes, My Lord," she said with the faintest touch of sulkiness.

"Have you ever used it on someone besides Jane?"

"Yes, My Lord," she said, nodding quite vigorously. "When I was twenty-nine I performed it on my cousin Fabian Prew-"

"That's fine then," he interjected, uninterested in being subjected to another of Lestranges' stories of her magical prowess. "This is pretty good. Only five incantations that you three don't know, out of sixty-three. That's a vast improvement from the last list I gave you. I've made up a new one." With his wand, the Dark Lord materialized a thick roll of parchment and handed it to Lucius. "I want you get through as many of them as you can in the next four days."

"Yes, My Lord," the three Malfoys and Bella answered him immediately.

He moved around the Brewery examining the different potions, each in different stages of completion, praising a few but for the most part,criticizing.

Jane was exploring the tiny drawers of a small bureau that rested on top of a table, to the side of the room. She was poking through each small receptacle, pulling out potion ingredients and bringing them up to her nose for tentative whiffs. She never grew bored of being in the Brewery. She would probably be content to spend hours in it, examining all the various herbs and jars of preserved livers, tongues, and other organs. Sometimes she asked them questions about her discoveries, which the Malfoys would reluctantly answer. Bella usually told her, in a very unladylike way, to shut it. She also liked to look through their collection of potion books, gasping and making horrified faces over the grotesque illustrations of people being flayed, eviscerated, or otherwise maimed, all while still alive.

Jane wandered over to another table in the middle of the room and began to study an ornately carved wooden box that the Dark Lord had brought with him. It looked quite old and worn. She traced her fingers over the scallops edging the rims and then ran them across the indentations cut into the sides and tops.

"What's it?" she asked quietly.

The Dark Lord's eyes lit up at her query and a small grin twisted the corners of his thin mouth. "You'll see soon enough, little one."

Jane gulped. Bella beamed.

"Come and sit here, my dear," he instructed her, resting one of his white spidery hands across the back of a wooden chair that he had instructed Draco to fetch when he first arrived.

At the words, "my dear," Bella's eyes darkened and her brows drew together.

Jane slowly shuffled across the room and sat down.

"Did you happen to overhear Danvers telling his wife whether he'd changed his mind, when you slipped away yesterday evening?" he asked her. He began to cast some spells at her.

Everybody's ears perked up at his question. The Dark Lord had never discussed anything of this nature with Jane in front of them before. They were incredibly curious about this ability of hers, but she never talked about it with them, and pressing her for information about it seemed imprudent.

"Um," she began. "'E's were sayin' it to 'er 'bout's it at supper."

"What did he say?"

She brought her small hand up and started to fidget with the neck of her gown. "'E's sayin' 'e'd do it."

"Do what?"

"Vote's 'gainst it. But then a man's be comin' over. It were that man, Goodbell, and when they's goin' to 'nother room for smokin' an' drinkin' togever, then 'e's sayin' to 'im that they's just ought to vote to do away's wif it."

The Dark Lord laughed. "And how did Goodbell respond to this?"

Jane was steadily, rhythmically swiveling her good leg in little half arcs. "'E were sprised, ya knowed? And 'e's sayin that they's shouldna be timidatered by you or any uvvers who'd be freaterninim' 'em. But Danvers, 'e's just shakin 'is 'ead like, an then 'e says to Goodbell, 'e could do as 'e's pleasin', but 'e's ain' riskin' 'is family fer the muggles."

"Well, what did Goodbell say to that?" he pressed her, his eyes fixed on her with a manic glow.

"Well, e's seemin' right sad, or somefink. 'E's ain' sayin nuffink fer a whiles. Then he's says it's no good. Iffin Danvers _and_ Boofby bofs goin' gainst 'im then 'e don' see no point in goin' fer it all's 'lone like."

He laughed again, with unrestrained pleasure at this news. "Excellent. That's excellent, Jane. Did you watch Goodbell after he left?"

She nodded.

"Did he go to that whore, again?"

She nodded.

"Did he talk to her?"

She nodded.

"Well," he said impatiently.

Jane sighed. She laced her twiggy fingers into her nest of hair and started tugging at it.

"'E, um, 'e's be sayin to 'er… that they's maybe oughta be goin's."

"Going? Where?"

"Spain. Er maybe Greece."

The Dark Lord ceased his spell-casting at these words. Narcissa watched him, could see his brain working rapidly at this unexpected turn of events.

"Did he tell her how they would get out of England?"

She shrugged. "'E's sayin 'ow 'e bein knewed a wizard could 'elp 'em."

"Did he tell her this wizard's name?"

Jane shook her head. She kept her eyes on the window.

The Dark Lord walked over to her and bent himself at the waist, until he was leaning over the mudblood. He rested his hand on her upper arm as he spoke to her.

"Look at me," he commanded. She obeyed him. "You know that if you ever lie to me, and mark my words, I will find out, I'll have Bellatrix take you into the woods behind the manor and slit your throat. You know that, don't you Jane?"

Jane simply nodded at him, and from the phlegmatic manner with which she absorbed this threat, Narcissa thought that it must be something he told her quite often.

"She's stuffed," Jane told him.

"Who's… _What_?"

"Marie. She's…gonna 'ave a baby."

The Dark Lord stood up and gave her a piercing, searching look. "Did she say it was his?"

Jane nodded.

"Does he believe her?"

She nodded again.

The Dark Lord walked around the Brewery without saying anything for a while.

"Did you see or overhear anything else that I should know, Jane?"

She shook her head.

"Put your arms down," he commanded.

Jane stopped her restless movements and looked at him uncertainly. She casually lowered her hands to her lap.

"No. I want you to put them on the armrests," he corrected her. He watched as she put them up on the wooden panels. "That's a good girl."

With a casual flick of his wand, ropes flew out and snaked themselves tightly up the length of her arms, down her legs as well, and also around her chest and stomach, until her circumscription was total. She immediately started to cry and struggle.

"Please! I's ain' be lyin, I's swears it!"

"Quiet down!"

She ceased her useless pleas but continued to cry and strain against her bindings.

"I believe you," he told her. He went and picked up his involute box from the table.

"This is something that needs to be done. I've given you some of this to drink before, however," and using magic, he opened the lid of the box and levitated a black and bright orange spider out of it - its body was the size of a saucer. "I'd like to see what will happen if you receive an injection of its venom directly into your blood."

He floated the spider towards her.

"NO! PLEASE! NO DON'T!"

Jane was completely hysterical by this point. She started to scream, her eyes were stretched out until the whites were exposed on every side, and she kept them locked on the enormous, exotic arachnid coming closer and closer to her.

The spider was flailing, angrily it seemed, uncomfortable with it's' inability to find purchase on anything solid.

Bella was beside herself with excitement. Her lips were parted as she softly panted and her corneas were enlarged.

Narcissa felt a small pocket of hope bubbling inside her chest, that this would be the end of the mudblood, and Lucius silently shared this sentiment. Draco, who'd stayed well out of the way, as he always did when the Dark Lord was present, wandered over to the window and gazed out onto the prolific grounds.

"Calm down child!" the Dark Lord loudly rebuked her. "It's pincers are quite tiny!"

But Jane didn't mind him. She continued to cry and scream and beg.

He carefully lowered the spider onto her lap. They watched as it seemed to get it's bearings for a moment, and then started to climb up her chest. It finally decided to plant it's fangs into her right shoulder.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

'


	14. Philter

Okay, so this chapter got sooo looong. I suddenly found myself at 6,000 words and still hadn't even gotten to the point of it! So, I decided I should break it up into two seperate chapters. I really hope you enjoy reading them because I have had a blast writing them! I'll be posting the sequel to this Chapter really soon, as I've almost finished it. If you enjoy reading it, I would love to hear it. Please review. PLEASE! (Okay, that got a bit desperate.)

Thank you so much to DZ Author, Tatiana K, and ls269, who have reviewed my story and helped me figure out what's working and what isn't! This is a great community for writers to receive encouragement, support, and sometimes, just an honest kick in the butt. Thanks again ladies.

**Philter**

**August 28th, 1998**

Afterward, though he tried his best not to remember it _at all_, Draco understood that it was nothing like love. It was just a simple obsession. He obviously didn't care about doing what was best for Jane, because he'd wanted to do a load of filthy things to her that no eighteen year old man should ever seriously contemplate doing to a twelve year old girl. Even was she a long-haired, pure-blooded beauty, instead of that frumpy, freaky, mudblood. But it was as though her name became his heartbeat in that twenty hour span of his life. Rather than pumping da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, it seemed to beat Ja-Jane, Ja-Jane, Ja-Jane. Jane Wellington was every lungful of air that he inhaled, exhaled, Jane in, Jane out; there was a complete dispersal of her image through every last particle of his body; in his blood, muscle, and bone. Jane, Jane, Jane to the infinite power.

He suddenly found her exquisite. Her big, red mouth looked luscious, and he'd even thought those gigantic spectacles were sexy and made her seem, of all things, very intelligent. She was actually quite witty to him that day.

After the love potion wore off, he'd asked his mother when she'd made Poisson bathe last, and Narcissa, seeming to instinctively understand why he wanted to know, had assured him that she'd washed herself only the day before. Thank Merlin. Not that it mattered to him while he was under the effects of that poisonous magic. No, while that treacherous elixir was coursing through his veins, her pungent effluvia would have seemed like the most intoxicating, Parisian perfume.

Who would ever have guessed that fat idiot, Professor Slughorn, could have been right about something? Amorentia seemed a darker, more dangerous magic than the Draught of Living Death to him, the next day, and every day after.

Jane, that sly little urchin, had taken prodigious advantage of his addled frame of mind, and spent a good portion of the afternoon having him play games with her. His mum and dad hadn't intervened, seeming to think it was the safest way to keep him occupied, and within their much-needed vigilance; not that he hadn't done his best to lure her somewhere, anywhere, else, so he could try to have his way with her in private. Uugh! He wanted to vomit whenever he remembered the vile fantasies he'd had about that deformed muggle.

The Dark Lord really, really despised Draco. That's what the entire experience had impressed on him in the end. He'd known that his family's master didn't like or respect him, thought him weak and utterly worthless- that was abundantly obvious. But until the day he'd made Draco drink the love potion, all in the name of "experimentation", he hadn't realized how much the Dark Lord…just _hated_ him.

%%%}{%%%

The Malfoys days had fallen into a routine that, for the most part, revolved around Jane. Every morning after breakfast, they took her down to the Brewery and gave her potions to drink, and then they cast spells and curses at her in turn. The Dark Lord supplied them with lists of things to try on her and had them keep meticulous records of all the unsuccessful magic, and they also had to make marginal notes about any side effects. Every once in a while, Jane would sneeze, or giggle, or cough, or get hiccups, but most often, if she had to drink large amounts of potions, she would get a stomachache. A few times she was sick. Luckily, she always seemed to know when it was about to happen, and so was able to make it to a rubbish bin that they kept nearby, specifically for these occasions.

For the spells, Draco would use his mother's wand first, and make his way down the parchment, finding the ones he'd been taught at school or by his dad and auntie. Then Lucius or Bellatrix would take it over, also having to borrow Cissa's wand, and between the two of them, they could make a much bigger dint in the catalog.

Sometimes they would teach Draco the complicated curses, showing him the wrist movements and repeating the incantations to him. Draco could never decide who was the better mentor, his father or his auntie. His father would often explain the theory behind the incantation, and sometimes these tidbits of insight were all he needed to fully grasp it. On the other hand, if he didn't pick up the movements after a couple of tries, his dad tended to get impatient and critical. Auntie Bellatrix, on the other hand, never bothered to explain anything, but she never grew impatient with him either. She actually had this useful knack for helping him pin down the wrist flicks. She would gently place her long fingers over his hand and wrist, and then she would carefully guide his motions with them. She would show him unwearyingly, as many times as he needed, without ever losing her head. It was odd how patient a teacher she could be, when the rest of the time she was so touchy and erratic. All in all, he picked them up fairly quickly, for which his father would sometimes praise him. These words of commendation made Draco pleased in a way that nothing else could touch.

Lucius and Bellatrix had entered into an implicit competition. Everyday they would each tally the number of spells they'd known and announce it to the room at large. Draco tried to keep a running total of them in his head, but math wasn't exactly a strong suit of his. He was fairly certain, from his father's self-satisfied grins, Lucius was winning.

They usually spent a couple of hours in the Brewery and then Jane went to play in her room until dinner. Since they'd purchased toys and paints for her, in Diagon Alley, she tended not to wander off so much, and could manage to keep herself contently occupied. She loved these little figurines they'd bought for her. They were small replicas of people that wore decadent gowns and robes, and they were enchanted to move around on their own. Many evenings, after dinner, found Jane lying on the floor of the sitting room floor making up silent stories and she moving her little people about, to act them soundlessly out. She also spent a good deal of her spare time painting pictures and then having one of the Malfoys hang them in the alcove around the deep window seats in her room.

If Jane hadn't been able to slip away then Narcissa had to send their master a message, using her patronus, letting him know. Then they usually wouldn't have to see him at all the next day; for if he did come, he conducted his business downstairs and didn't bother to see them.

At supper, Bella always informed them whether or not He'd been in the house each day. She spent most of her free time in the parlor, taking and dispensing messages from the other Death Eaters, and trying to seem as useful as she could to her Master. In fact, every Sunday evening would find her sitting outside the large dining room that he used for his weekly meetings. She was still prohibited from attending them, but she wanted to be as close to them, to Him, as possible.

If Jane had slipped away then the Dark Lord would show up in the early afternoon. He would often lead them to the Brewery for progress reports and to update their instructions. Then he would take Jane to her room, and there have her give reports about her phantom excursions into the lives and homes of his adversaries.

After the Dark Lord had done with her, they would usually go outside for a few hours until five o'clock, and then Jane would eat a large snack, before going to her room to lie down and try to spy. Whether she did or not, she usually stayed in there for at least an hour. When she rejoined them in the sitting room she would often be hungry again and then either Rumpa or Narcissa, for by that late hour Martha had gone home, would fetch a plate for her of reheated food.

The Malfoys were quite amused by Jane's behavior toward Rumpa. It was as though she thought the elf was a proper person, and she always used the nicest manners with her, and often tried to engage her in conversation. They tried explaining to her about house-elves, how they preferred to be paid as little attention as possible, and how not doing so might give them ideas above their station. But Jane just didn't seem to get it. No surprise there. She continued to 'please' and 'thank' her, and would often ask Rumpa questions about her family and her life. The Malfoys didn't really think that Jane could destroy Rumpa's sense of her place in the world. After all, Jane was practically a house-elf herself.

Rumpa clearly didn't know what to make of Jane, as her status within the household was so undefined. The first time Jane saw Rumpa, she held her hand out and introduced herself to it, for all the world as though they were meeting at a tea party or a picnic. Rumpa was so shocked she almost lost her magical grip on the pile of linens she was levitating. The mossy little elf had looked to the Malfoys for guidance. Should she ignore the muggle? The Malfoys didn't say or do anything to indicate to her that she shouldn't accept this unusual offer of acquaintanceship, so she had lightly shook Jane's hand, made a little bow to her, and told the child her name. Jane had giggled and clapped and, holding out either side of skirt, made a rather graceless bow right back to her, as though it were all a delightful game.

"You's gonna 'ave a baby?" Jane had asked. "Or you's just fat?

"I's havin' a baby, miss," Rumpa had responded in her squeaky voice.

"Is you's wantin' a boy or girl?" Jane next wanted to know.

Her eyes darted to the Malfoys for a moment and she said, "A girl, miss."

"Wotcha gonna be namin' it?" Jane asked.

"Well, I's think Dobba, miss, fer a girl, and Rumby fer a boy," she told her.

"When you's be 'avin it, can I's 'olded it?" she'd implored.

The elf almost lost her hold on the clean sheets again. "Well, I's," she hesitated. No human, to her knowledge, had ever asked a house-elf such a thing before. "I's don' see why not, miss. You…you's be careful with it, won't you?"

Jane had cryptically swiped an invisible X over her chest and said, "Cross my 'eart. I's only be 'olded it's whiles I sittin down like. So's I won' be fell over wif it."

Lame Jane had this hilarious tendency to trip over the thick rugs laid all around the manor. It made for a good laugh at least once a day.

That was the beginning of Jane's friendship with Mrs. Black's elf. They only admonished Jane for talking to her, when they worried it might interfere with her work.

Martha was a completely different cauldron of cares. She, like the Malfoys, detested mudbloods. It was the only reason she'd stayed on to work for them after Lucius was revealed as a Death Eater. She thought he and his family had the right idea about joining up with the Dark Lord. Not that this endeared her to them in any way. Had the circumstances been different, they would have made a more concentrated effort to replace her years ago.

She seemed to really enjoy working in the Dark Lord's headquarters, though she wasn't so fond of cleaning up after the disgusting Snatchers, and even some of the Death Eaters, that spoiled the rugs and furniture. She'd flirt and jibe and mess about with the disheveled Snatchers, and have a jolly time of it. All of the Dark Lord's low-class servants enjoyed gadding about with the Malfoys' maid. But once the party was over, and they had all departed, she would grumble and sulk while she had to clean up the cigarette butts and the food and alcohol stains they left over every surface of the drawing room, dining room, and the parlor where they congregated. For the life of her, Narcissa couldn't understand how Martha could stand around, making her tawdry innuendos with a yellow-toothed, greasy-haired wizard, who was half her age, all the while watching as he flicked the ashes off of his cigar into a priceless antique vase, and then complain about washing it out afterward.

When Martha had realized that Jane was a muggle, she had tried to tender her resignation. Fortunately, Lucius had managed to convince her to stay.

"I sure as 'Ades, ain' stayin' to wait on no damn muggle!" she had cried, storming into the sitting room.

It only took her a few days to figure it out. The Malfoys never discussed anything significant around Martha. Even if she was wise enough to keep her loud mouth shut when it came to the Dark Lord's affairs, she wouldn't scruple to spread rumors about her employers' personal lives. If one of them so much as accidentally broke wind in front of her, which, luckily, they didn't often do, they could be sure that Martha would announce it high and low. Servants, human servants that is, gossiped.

"She's here on the Dark Lord's orders," Lucius calmly informed the loud-mouthed wench.

"I don't care!" she had erupted. "I sure as shite won' be cleanin' 'er dirty linens, or cleanin 'er toilets! The day I'm bein' asked to serve a mudblood, is my last day in your service!"

Then she'd stomped out of the room.

Narcissa was quite alarmed by this development. Without Martha, she would wind up doing the cleaning and cooking. The chances of them coming across another maid who didn't mind waiting in a manor that the Dark Lord frequented were zero to nil.

"Lucius!" she had exclaimed through her teeth in a constricted hiss. "Do something!"

Lucius hesitated for a moment, before he asked Cissa for her wand. As soon as she handed it to him he'd dashed after the dumpy witch.

He caught up with her on one of the second-floor landings, located closer to the kitchens.

"Wait Martha," he had commanded.

She didn't stop. A wandless wizard had little authority in her opinion.

He had to reach out and grab her by the arm, spin her around to face him, and he decided to keep a firm grip on her.

Martha, for the five years she had attended Hogwarts, was in Slytherin. She'd had to drop out of school when, at sixteen, she became impregnated with her oldest child. It was one of the reasons that she loved working for the Malfoys, and the reason she'd always hated them so much. The recent reduction in their status, with virtually everybody, made Martha enjoy her work for them in ways she never thought she'd live to see.

Despite her hatred of her persnickety employers, and her implicit satisfaction with their current loss of stature, Lucius Malfoy's rough hand around her arm sent tingling waves of pleasure coursing under her skin. Her mouth parted as she looked up at the rich, careworn, but nevertheless still-handsome, man standing over her. She hadn't been touched by anybody of his distinctive class, not purposefully, since she was young and fresh, with clear skin and good teeth. Under usual circumstances, Lucius didn't bother looking at her, unless it couldn't be helped.

If Lucius had realized that Martha's even ruddier complexion and heavy panting were due to lascivious notions he would have released her immediately and hastily retreated a pace or two away from the nasty witch, despite the fact that it was a form of power over her. However, he mistook these physical changes as manifestations of her fear of him.

Lucius looked down at the florid-faced witch trying, for once, to disguise his contempt.

"We're willing to offer you a generous raise," he said without preamble.

"You couldn' pay me enough," she said with a wry expression which turned her miniscule lips and chunky cheeks to mismatched whorls. Then she added, sardonically, "_Sir_."

"I doubt that," Lucius said with complete confidence. In his experience _everybody_ had a price.

"Mr. Malfoy, servants like me are in 'igh demand. No 'mount of gold's goin' to persuade me to clean up after a filthy muggle," she spat at him.

"We'll double your pay," he retorted, quickly deciding this wasn't a situation that warranted haggling.

She just shook her head slowly and narrowed her small, piggy eyes. "You could offer me every galleon in your fat vault, an' I wouldn' take it."

Lucius couldn't believe that Martha was as principled as this. Of course, if he was honest, no amount of gold would ever propel him to house a mudblood. He was only doing it on pain of death. But he couldn't imagine someone as near-destitute as Martha would ever turn her nose up at such an offer.

Martha could have supported a moderate-sized family comfortably, with the wages she earned from her position with the Malfoys, but every year or so she was in childbed again. Narcissa had once confessed to Lucius that she had generously offered to supply Martha with as much contraceptive potions as she'd liked. But Martha had, less than politely, declined her assistance. Other than the occasional gardening jobs for the Malfoys, her husband, as far as Lucius knew, didn't work much and drank a great deal, and mostly depended on his wife's income.

However, it was true that if she left the Malfoys, now that the world knew they were consorting with You-Know-Who, she could easily obtain a new position, with or without a good reference. If money wouldn't work, then Lucius decided he would have to give her a good dose of fear, and perhaps a drop or two of the truth.

He pulled out Cissa's wand, which he had kept concealed in his sleeve until that point. He held it casually by his side, and watched Martha silently taking it in.

She returned her eyes to his and said, "Even if you was to curse me, wouldn' do you much good. Not fer what your wantin' me fer."

He smiled a bit and took a deep breath through his nose. "I know that Martha. I'm not going to curse you. Or hex you. My aim is simply to warn you."

He paused and let the silence stretch out, tautly, while the message sank in.

"Warn me 'bout what," she asked, a note of caution in her voice now.

"Well, you see," he started, lowering his voice and leaning in a bit, "over the past year of your service with us, you've been privy to many of the comings and goings of certain dark witches and wizards, and most especially He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. I'm sure you've overheard a great deal that was never meant for your ears."

"So?"

"I don't think the Dark Lord would be pleased to discover that anyone such as yourself, with as much information about his business as you've likely gleaned, has decided to take up employment elsewhere."

"'E ain' gonna care if you and your wife 'as to scrub your own toilets," she told him scornfully.

"Of course he won't, you fool," he snapped, losing his patience with the daft cow. He collected himself, and decided to try again, with plainer language. "If I tell the Dark Lord you've gone to work for someone else, I might let slip that you've suffered some…problems with his agenda."

"I 'ave not!" she bellowed.

"He'll believe me, though."

"Don' know 'bout that now, see. 'E might just see right through you," was her cool return. "After all, Mr. Malfoy," she didn't dare call him Lucius, not while he held a wand, though she longed to, "you ain' exactly 'is 'ighest ranked servant no more, is ya?"

That stung. Lucius could no longer deceive himself into believing that Martha was oblivious to his depleted standing within the chain of command, feeble hope though it had been. But remaining composed was, he knew, the key to this bluff. It might not even be a bluff. Every word he was speaking to her could be completely true. There was just no telling when it came to his master.

"Perhaps," he pretended to concede. "He still won't like the idea of you trading kitchen gossip with the servants in other households, once I've planted the idea in his mind."

"I do that anyway," she was foolish enough to admit.

Lucius grinned, broadly. And she seemed to shrink a bit, once the recklessness of her concession had the chance to reverberate around her half-empty head for a few moments.

"Exactly," he stated succinctly. "Now then, I suggest that you not only accept my more than generous offer of a doubled salary, but also that you resign yourself to the idea that the little mudblood might be with us for quite a while."

"Might?" she asked. "You sayin, she might not?"

Lucius eyes clouded over a bit before he decided to reply with, "He could, even now, be looking for a…more appropriate situation for her."

"What's she doin' 'ere anyway," Martha wanted to know. She couldn't conceive of anything to explain Jane's presence.

"My master has…recruited her, in a manner of speaking. She," he hesitated then, not liking to admit the truth of her, but knowing that Martha needed a solid reason to stay if she was expected to do anything as base as wait on a mudblood. "She has a...power."

"Tosh!" she spouted in disbelief.

Lucius narrowed his eyes at her and looked down his nose at Martha. "It's the truth. The Dark Lord believes she'll be useful to him."

"I 'eard 'bout 'er spanking, Mr. Malfoy. And 'ow you think I can believe a _muggle_ got a power can 'elp the Dark Lord makes me think yer tryin' to take the piss."

"I assure you, I'd never 'take the piss' with you," Lucius informed her, his tone rife with his asperity. "And she was beat because she deserved it. She got off much too lightly in my opinion. In everyone's opinion, probably. Nevertheless, it's up to the Dark Lord how she's dealt with, and, for now, she's to be left in our care. So, for you to wait on the muggle, is, indirectly, a way that you can serve him." He could see in her eyes, that Martha was trying to process this information, so he added, "You don't have to be polite to her."

Finally, Martha surprised Lucius when she said, "I'll stay, but I don't want no double salary. I wan' ya ta hire me daughter, Agnes."

Lucius considered this for a moment before asking, "Why?"

"I've been tellin' you an' the missus fer years that I need some 'elp round 'ere. It's too big fer just me and the 'ccasional 'ouse-elf. Agnes' a good girl, and she'll work 'ard. I want you to match my salary fer 'er."

"How old is she?"

"Sixteen."

"Why isn't she at Hogwarts then?"

Martha sighed, clearly annoyed. "My 'usband and I don' think book learnin's her…vocation."

Lucius pretended to mull this over a moment, and then said, "You mean she doesn't make good marks."

Martha's eyelids lowered to baleful slits. "No, she don' make good marks, _sir_. But she's more than capable of emptyin' rubbish bins and dustin' and polishin' furniture." She looked him up and down. "That's my final offer. Take it or leave it."

Lucius backed up and shrugged apathetically. "Bring her here Monday. We'll see how she works out."

Martha gave him a fake, rather rubbery, smile and started to walk off.

"Martha," he called.

This time she stopped and turned for him.

"_You're_ responsible for her," he said vigorously. "You know that some of the Dark Lord's servants have special… _appetites_. Don't let your young daughter wander around unattended, or she's sure to get…snatched."

His conscious clear, on that score, Lucius had returned to the sitting room to tell his wife about their new employee. From then on, he had a newfound respect for Martha. Uneducated, poor, and ugly she may be, but her intransigence went on a long way with him.

Agnes turned out to be…not pretty really, but rather buxom and extremely well-proportioned. Agnes had lots of blondish-ginger hair that popped out of her buns like tight, coppery corkscrews. She was slim-waisted, and bosomy, and her milky skin was freckled terribly over her upper cheeks and across the bridge of her slightly upturned nose. She had hazel eyes, one of which had a tendency to wander, that were set very close to together, and immediately gave the impression of an airy space between her ears. Draco found the overall shape of face rather equestrian. Her teeth were incredibly crooked and she exposed them often-along with a great deal of her pink gums-with her easy smiles. So Agnes was definitely not pretty.

Draco remembered her from school. She was in Hufflepuff, and rumors floated around that she was easy. None of the boys actually claimed to have had sex with her, but some had said that, if paid a little attention, she'd do things. Things every teenaged male dreamed a girl might do, whether she was pretty or not; for she had be on her knees to do them, so it wasn't as if he'd have to see much of her face. Just the top of her head.

The day of the love potion, Draco realized afterward, that he'd come quite close to seeing Jane naked again.

On her first evening at the manor, when the Dark Lord had ordered his father and Rowle to take off Jane's clothes, Draco had been sitting at a table directly across from his mother. He had kept his eyes down the entire time she was nude, until Cissa had conjured a wrapping for her and then informed him that Jane was completely covered. He hadn't been desperate to see her naked or anything, but he was a little curious. Draco had never seen a woman naked in real life, only in a few pictures that some of his housemates had nicked from their dads. Jane didn't count as a woman, not by a long shot, but she was female, and she did have, in the vicinity of her torso, a little something, or two. So if his mother hadn't been sitting right in front of him, he probably would have…at least peeked.

But on the Love Potion Day, Draco had almost seen her naked once more.

The Dark Lord had come earlier than usual that day. As soon as they were in the Brewery, he'd brought out an Invisibility Cloak. He was about to throw it over Jane, but she had literally screamed for him to stop.

She backed quickly away from it, almost tripping over the leg of a table in the process, and said, sounding stricken, "Please, don' be doin' it!"

"Why ever not, Jane? It can't hurt you," the Dark Lord said, surprised and irritated by her reaction.

She crossed her arms over her chest and, her eyes round as cauldrons, said, "I's ain' fancy showin' me bubbies."

"Your _bubbies_? What, pray tell, are bubbies?"

Jane's dark skin began to go pink. Before she met Jane, Narcissa would never have thought that ethnic people could blush. But she would have thought wrong.

"Dumbledore's puttin' one on me's afore," she told them. "And then 'e's goin' red and turnin' 'round, like. 'E's telled me to take it off, but before I's doin it I turn round and see in a mirror sitted there, that I's naked. See, all my stitches go inviserable, but not's _me_!"

The Dark Lord began to quietly, slowly pace, as he thought about what she said. Jane's hands began to tremble a bit, and Narcissa assumed she was worried that he might want to see it for himself. After all, he had no problem exposing her naked flesh on a prior occasion, so he might very well decide to do so again.

However, the Dark Lord didn't want to upset her. She'd been providing him with some very helpful snippets of information of late, and after the incident with the spider, she'd proven as delicate as she had presented herself from the beginning. The magical spider's venom was a rare ingredient that was quite useful in many potions, so the introduction of it into her bloodstream had been innocuous. But the pain of its' pincers penetrating her flesh, combined the trauma of being tied up while it had scaled and bitten her, had subsequently prevented her from spying for five days afterward. He'd been quite annoyed by this, but had tried not to show this in her presence, instinctively knowing that fear of his wrath wouldn't go anywhere towards helping her achieve the calm frame of mind she needed to relax and slip away.

After a moment he halted and then threw the cloak over himself.

"Can you see me, Jane?" he asked.

Jane nodded. No one else could see him, so they watched her as she watched him, her head swiveling as he silently skirted the edges of the room. Then he took off the cloak, and her eyes were fixed on the corner where he swept off the watery covering. Next, he held his wand above his head and cast a thorough Disillusionment Charm on himself, and once more asked whether she could see him.

She nodded, and then he wanted her to tell him how many fingers he was holding up. A small crease formed over the center of her uni-brow, and after a minute she decided to simply mimic his display. She held up all the fingers on one hand, and three on the other. Bellatrix released a sound, half amused and half exasperated, at Jane's inability to tot up eight fingers.

He cast the counter charm over himself and then wanted to know, "Did Dumbledore ever ask to you for a strand of your hair?"

She nodded.

"Did you ever see him mix it into a thick, brownish green potion?"

She nodded, and brought a small finger to rest in the cleft of her chin for a moment before she told him, "'E's calleded it the Rolypoly Juice.'

"Polyjuice potion," he amended. "Did you watch him drink it?"

"Nah. 'E ain boverin'. Say 'e knowed wouldn' do nuffink."

Everyone in the room understood that when Dumbledore had added a piece of her essence into the potion, the concoction hadn't frothed and altered, signaling the fusion required in order for the transformation to be completed.

"Did he ever ask you to drink some Polyjuice Potion?"

She nodded.

"And what happened?"

She leaned over the table she stood beside, bringing her elbow up to rest on the surface of it and cupping her chin in her hand. When she answered him, her voice, as it sometimes did, lost the high-pitched, plaintive tone she usually spoke with, and she seemed so grown-up in these rare moments.

Sounding bored, and ancient, Jane heaved a stark sigh and absent-mindedly said, "Nuffink." She raised her narrow shoulders in a shrug of indifferent defeat. Puncuating each 'k' with a drawn out kiss, she said, "Nuffink never didded nuffink."

He was silent for a few minutes and simply raked his ruby eyes over the dirty-faced, fractious child that grew ever more intriguing to him. Everyone watched him quietly, the tall, albino snake, licking his thin, almost non-existent mouth, as he lingeringly watched his unwitting, cagey prey. Jane had taken up a small glass phial, and, crooning a quiet, breathy tune, was idly caressing it with her small middle finger, and then began maneuvering it to catch some sunlight and cast multi-hued reflections over the worn surface of the workbench. She seemed unaware of the Dark Lord's scrutiny.

_Who is she_? The question came wholly formed in Cissa's mind and was then, before she'd quite consented to acknowledge the spectral query, completely gone.

"Did Dumbledore ever give you a love potion, Jane?"

Without waiting for her to answer, the Dark Lord joined her at the table and pulled a glass bottle from the depths of his black robes. He conjured two glasses and, uncorking it the phial, poured an equal draught into each one.

Did he think having her swallow a double dose might be more effective than a mere single?

"Tell me what you smell." He offered her one of the glasses.

She brought the creamy liquid up and inhaled deeply. She shrugged. "Nuffink."

The Dark Lord brought the glass to his slits and took his own whiff. Bella and the Malfoys wondered what he smelled, but none had the courage to ask.

"What's it be smell to you?" Jane asked.

One side of his mouth flicked up and he said, "I smell magic and power and eternity."

He set the glass down beside it's twin and began to whisper incantations over them. When he was finished he pushed one of them to Jane and told her to drink it.

She didn't immediately comply, though usually she drank everything they set before her without hesitating. "What's it?"

"Amorentia."

"Iffin it be worked on me, what's it doin'?"

"If you can't smell anything, then I doubt it will work. But, if by some extraordinary reason this magic manages to ensnare you, you will spend…oh, I'd say, approximately the next twenty-four hours deeply infatuated with the dashing young Draco here." And, cackling wickedly, he swept his arm toward the young man, who was skulking far in the background.

Draco flushed a deep red, and moved his eyes to his feet, scared the Dark Lord might see his vexation, and be angered by it.

Jane flushed again, as well.

"Drink it, my child," he told her.

But she didn't take up the glass and mind him. She backed away instead and muttered, "Please, don' be makin' me do that."

"Jane." It was simply her name that he said. He was looking shocked and disbelieving that she meant to eschew her typical acquiescence, and his breath began to come faster.

She looked scared, but took another step away from him, the possible infatuation, and the potential humiliation.

"_Drink_. It." He was speaking through clenched teeth now. Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and Bellatrix were all watching in silent relief that he was directing that look at the mudblood and not them.

A small tear slipped down her face and her aquatic, gibbous eyes met his in a useless petition for a leniency, a minute mercy. Through quivering lips she whispered, "Please."

Bella's eyes were backlit with a manic ecstasy at Jane's disobedience. For Bellatrix Lestrange hated Jane Wellington more with each passing day. She was an ugly, lame, ignoramus, not to mention a _muggle_, but this wasn't what bothered Bella. Indeed, these abhorrent characteristics were not only trifling, but the only things that were saving the child from Bella's wrath. The apex of her world constantly had His eyes on Jane. He found her immunity to magic captivating, and He was finding her uses as his private spy more and more helpful as Jane's time in His service progressed. Bella wasn't looked at, sought after, made useful to him, or praised. She was nothing to Him since Potter's escape, and she was incubating her thoughts and feelings for Jane. A good portion of Bella's days were spent sifting through the girl's inner and outer being, her mannerisms and what exactly she represented to magical peoples everywhere. Bella was sorting through it all, discarding the extraneous, condensing the pertinent, and distilling her ideas and her loathing for the girl that the Dark Lord often referred to as 'My dear.' She wanted to kill her, badly. Even though Jane's presence with them afforded Bella a daily propinquity to her Master that she couldn't have achieved on her own, not at this point, she had an overwhelming need to end Jane.

Bella's strong emotion toward Jane was no secret among the Malfoys. Lucius harbored a secret hope, and fear, that Bella might lose her temper one day and kill Jane in a psychotic rage. As it was possible that he and Cissa and Draco could be blamed for such an incident, he wasn't hoping for it too fondly. On the other hand, if the Dark Lord _didn't_ blame them, he would most likely kill Bella for her mistake, and then two of Lucius' banes would be synchronously eliminated with one fell curse. Lucius had lately considered mentioning to his master his "fears" of Bella's destructive sentiment, devoid of a tempering logic as it likely was, and suggesting her removal from his household as the most sensible recourse. But all of the easy intercourse he had been privy to in his youth had suffered a discouraging surcease since the evening his master discovered that Lucius had been careless with the book he'd been charged with safeguarding. Since then, every attempt, on Lucius' part, to take up a genial dialogue with him had been abruptly rebuffed with vicious insinuations and thwarting dismissals. Lucius was still trying to work out the safest method of broaching the subject, as nothing he said to him, these days, seemed well-taken, or at face value.

"For the sake of your spying, I'm going to give you one more chance to obey me without any repercussions, my _dear_. But you must know that, without absolute obedience, I shall, spying aside, have to punish you." He held the glass out to her, but when she shook her head and took another step away from his demand and his threat, the Dark Lord pointed his wand at her. It was a visceral reaction, nothing more, and when he realized what he'd done, he lowered it again, feeling rather foolish.

"Bella!"

"My Lord!" she exclaimed, bounding to him with an unrestrained show of gladness. She frequently dreamed of hurting Jane, and woke from them with a swollen labia, and damp knickers.

Her eagerness was her undoing.

The Dark Lord, catching sight of her unchecked grin and her chest heaving with elated anticipation, immediately decided he needed someone with a better balance of their faculties.

He looked around the Brewery. Narcissa wasn't even an option. It would have to be either Lucius or Draco. Lucius, he knew, would be the most obvious choice, but the Dark Lord thought he should train up Draco to take a more active role in his duties as a Death Eater.

"Draco, come here."

Bella's entire countenance sagged with dashed happiness. "My Lord, please allow me to assist you," she implored.

"Quiet," he calmly warned her.

Her eyes now shining with repressed tears of anger and disappointment, Bella retreated to the window, and turned her back on the scene in which she wouldn't be allowed to participate.

Draco, while he often hoped that Jane might drink a poison and die, or fall down a set of stairs and die, had no personal desire, whatsoever, to hurt a twelve year old girl.

He went to his master and then awaited further instructions.

The Dark Lord really didn't want to have to hurt her, but this insubordination couldn't pass without reprisal. It set the wrong sort of tone for all future dealings. Jane needed to understand that without total compliance, she was worthless.

He turned his eyes on young Malfoy and said, "Don't lose control. Now slap her."

Narcissa felt that she would be sick. She also turned away from the unfolding prospect, not wanting to watch her son beating a little girl, not even Jane, whom she frequently thought needed a beating.

As Draco advanced, Jane retreated.

"Please!"

Draco took careful aim and unleashed his palm at her. She, somehow, managed to dodge the blow by swiftly ducking. Draco hesitated.

"Lucius, get her from behind and hold her still for him," the Dark Lord commanded impatiently. There was much he needed to get done, and Jane's little rebellion was cutting into his tight schedule.

"My lord, perhaps I should just take care of this for you," Lucius offered. The idea of slapping Jane around didn't hold a shred of appeal for him, but the idea of his son doing it didn't sit well with him, either. He thought, perhaps, if the Dark Lord were to leave, he and his wife could persuade the child to drink it, without any violence.

"Just hold her! Draco needs to learn how to inflict pain, since you've obviously failed to teach him this."

"Yes, my lord," he responded resignedly, almost meekly. The Dark Lord was perfectly right. He knew this, but as he watched each piece of innocence being chipped off of his son, Lucius felt that he and his wife were both losing something ineffable.

As Lucius came toward her, Jane was looking wildly around, obviously on the hunt for a place to bolt. She made a dash for the door, but Lucius easily caught her. She swung back her heavy boot and planted a kick to his shin. And damn did it hurt! He raised his hand to issue a retaliatory slap but managed to check the impulse, knowing that she would be in plenty of pain soon enough.

"Please! Please don'!" she pleaded.

Lucius held firmly to each of her scrawny arms, turned her around and managed to push her closer into the room and closer to his son.

Lucius couldn't bear the look in Draco's eyes. He was trying to look steely and apathetic, but around the edges of his dissimulation his loathing and reluctance were still discernable.

As Draco took another swipe at her, Jane began to scream and thrash. Lucius was doing his best to keep her still for him, but Draco was bewildered as to where to direct his hands. He was scared to hit her too hard, for he couldn't forget what the Dark Lord had done to Macnair when he'd punched her. Most of his blows were falling far short of their mark.

Bella was utterly disgusted by her nephew's maladroit attempts to hit the crusty mudblood. She went and stood beside the Dark Lord, crossed her arms in a simulation of boredom, and released a derisive sigh of impatience.

The Dark Lord - noticing that Lestrange had collected her emotions, and growing more and more keen to have this done with - finally told Draco to stop.

Draco retreated from the frantic child so quickly it was almost as though he had Apparated himself to the opposite side of the room. Narcissa resisted the urge to go and comfort him, knowing her solicitations would be unwanted and only make him feel worse.

The Dark Lord looked and at Bella and nodded.

As she headed for the place where Lucius was holding Jane, he cautioned her, "Don't lose your control, Bellatrix, or I'll turn my wand on you."

"Yes, My Lord," she answered without pausing.

Lucius saw that his sister-in-law was unable to conceal a little smile as she came toward them. Without qualm or hesitation, she roughly grabbed the flailing Jane by the back of her hair. "Plea-!"

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

"Stop!"

She stopped.

Jane was sobbing unrestrainedly, her lips pulled back in a grimace that exposed all the metal and wires connected to her teeth.

The Dark Lord came to them with the tumbler of love potion. "Will you drink it now?"

Though her cheeks were drenched in her tears, and snot was running into her open mouth, still she shook her head.

"Again, Lestrange."

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

"Stop! Drink it!"

She shook her head again.

The Dark Lord used his wand to draw a chair in the air. It materialized, rotated mid-air a few times, and landed gently on the floor.

"Set her in it."

Lucius and Bella managed to get the struggling mudblood into it, as commanded, and the Dark Lord conjured some rope. It slithered carefully across the ground, wrapped itself gracefully around Jane's arms and legs, without capturing Lucius' and Bella's hands. Once she was bound he told them to hold her mouth open.

Why she was making such a fuss, Narcissa couldn't fathom. Of all the deadly brews she'd willingly consumed, of all the dark objects she'd almost lovingly fondled, why was a simple love potion so averse to her?

Bella and Lucius together succeeded in prying apart her jaws and the Dark Lord poured most of the Amorentia into her little maw. Some of the viscous, pearly liquid ran down her cheeks and chin as she cried and sputtered.

After a moment, seeming to realize it was all over, Jane appeared to settle down.

"Can I's go to the loo?" she asked.

"In a moment." Instead of untying her, the Dark Lord returned to the workbench where the second glass patiently awaited. "Come here Draco."

Draco, thinking that their master wanted him to pour the second glass down her throat and, not possessing a single compunction about it, stepped to the Dark Lord's side.

"Drink this," he told him, brandishing the Amorentia at him.

Draco didn't color, didn't blink, didn't breathe.

Narcissa came towards the table where they stood. "My lord?"

"I want to see if an incantation of Jane will work on someone else."

"Surely there are more suitable people you could test it with," she countered. Lucius, feared for his wife, and admired her bravery.

"Like Lucius?" he asked. When two patches of pink appeared over her creamy cheeks, he chuckled.

"Drink it Draco," he commanded.

Draco, very slowly, reached for the glass, but once it was in his hand he simply held it. He eyes darted toward where his father was standing. Just as the Dark Lord raising his wand to the wayward Jane had been a gut response, so was Draco's looking to his dad. It wasn't a rational reaction; hadn't been for a long time now. But his father had always represented the epitome of Draco's safekeeping, and in this moment, he couldn't help hoping his father could figure out some way to save him from the mortification this was going to bring.

His father saw Draco glance at him and decided that, like his wife, he should at least make some exertion toward helping his son avoid this embarrassment. "My lord," Lucius said, "Amorentia doesn't need any infusion of the child's essence to be activated like Polyjuice Potion. Surely this isn't a necessary experiment."

"Surely you aren't presuming to tell me what's necessary, Lucius," the Dark Lord said coldly. At the end of his allotted tolerance for the whole trial, he used his wand to give Malfoy a magical blow.

Lucius, caught off his guard, was knocked into a table and had to grab at it to keep from falling to the floor. He groaned and pulled his hand up to his cheek. It felt quite hot and it was already pulsating painfully.

"Do you need some of the same Draco?" the Dark Lord coldly inquired.

"Can I's go to the loo now, please," Jane called from the chair where she remained tied.

"In a minute," the Dark Lord told her.

Realizing there was nothing else to be done, Draco brought the Amorentia to his mouth and downed the syrupy, cloying philter.


	15. Draco Hearts Jane

**Draco Hearts Jane**

The Amorentia smelt of a sweet perfume whose origins he couldn't quite pinpoint, but which a evoked a faint pocket of warm memory in which he'd sat in his mother's lap as a very small boy and played with her hair; also the lavender soap that was used on the household linens; and another vague, rather musky scent that made him think of Pansy's soft breasts and Agnes's comely hips, slender waist, and bulging bustline; and after he'd finished drinking it Draco felt unclean. He wondered if any wizard in the history of magic had ever been stupid enough to knowingly swallow a glass of Amorentia. The room was suddenly hot and he felt stifled, as though he couldn't breathe. He could feel his cheeks flushing with the heat, and small drops of sweat broke out on his upper lip and his forehead; and he knew it was all in his head. He'd studied the effects of Amorentia as part of his sixth year curriculum, and it took about an hour for the potion to take root in his brain - unlike most potions, whose effects are instantaneous. But Draco was panicking. It was as though a death sentence had been placed on him, and was weighing heavily above, like a sharp, unstable pendulum was now swinging over his head; precarious and fatal and only a short matter of time before it fell.

The Dark Lord released Jane so she could go to the lavatory and while she was gone, he gave his parents and auntie some additional instructions.

"Draco isn't to receive an antidote under any circumstances. I want all three of you to observe his behavior until the effects wear off, and I expect some detailed notes."

He went on, "If, by some happy circumstance, the philter manages to enchant Jane, give her the antidote, and if that doesn't work then make notes for me on her reactions to it as well.

"Make sure your son doesn't do anything too disruptive towards her. You'll need to keep a close eye on both of them, especially if the Amorentia is working on her. If they have sex, I'll kill him. I have some…tentative plans for Jane involving her virgin's blood, which, as you all know, is a potent magic. If your son spills it prematurely, I doubt all three of you will manage to survive my wrath.

"Have I made my meaning plain enough for you, or should I be writing all of this down?"

"Your meaning is very clear, my lord," Narcissa said roughly. And then, brazenly, frantically she laughed, and looking her master in his bloody eyes, harshly said, "We won't allow our _son_ to have sex with the mudblood."

"We understand, my lord," Lucius said in a voice that was unusually docile, as though he needed to negate his wife's reckless statement. The pain and swelling on his cheek made it hard for him to speak.

"Anything you wish, My Lord," Bellatrix assured Him breathlessly.

His talk of Jane and her 'virgin's blood' was churning and bubbling so noisily inside Bella's head, she hardly knew what she was saying to him. What exactly did these 'tentative plans' entail? If He pricked the child, Bella would kill her; spy or no, come what may. She longed to ask Him, but knew she didn't dare even imply anything so sordid, in case that was furthest thing from his mind. It should be, Bella knew that. Before Jane was brought to serve him, something that abominable would never have occurred to her. But Jane's uncanny ability to spy, along with her perverse immunity to magic appeared to exempt her from all the regular rules that had long existed, governing the conduct of wizards and witches toward muggles. Jane was changing everything.

However distasteful it might be for him to arrange for a child as juvenile as Jane to have sex with _anybody_ at her unripe age, Narcissa understood perfectly why he was thinking of it. A virgin's blood was very powerful magic, and Narcissa still had her own, kept sealed, preserved, and tucked safely away in her keeping should she ever choose to invoke it's power. A witch's wedding-night blood was one of her greatest gifts to herself, the pain of it acting as a small balancing force, which was a measly remuneration, all in all. In countries where women were oppressed - in some places witches weren't allowed to have wands, receive training, and could be put to death if she were caught trying to practice magic - her husband could collect her blood and use it for himself. Many women said that the magnitude of this theft would cause whatever magic he chose to enhance with it to sour and turn on him in the end. Narcissa had no idea whether this was true, or just a random rumor spread by the indignant members of her sex, but she sincerely hoped with all of her heart that this was the case. The Dark Lord had either never heard of these rumors, which wouldn't be surprising as it wasn't something women discussed except among other females, or he didn't believe them.

Narcissa wished for her own sake, that the Dark Lord's plans were labeled tentative because he was making them for a very distant future. Even were he to get Jane to consent to it – for surely he could see how counterproductive coercion would be - any time a twelve year girl had sex with someone older, it could only be rape. Of all the torture and all the killings that had now taken place under the roof of Malfoy Manor, adding the rape of a little girl would be a separate sort of odious to Cissa's sensibilities, and she hoped that Jane would either have sex sometime very far away from the present, or somewhere very far away from their family home. In addition to these wishes, Narcissa could only hope that, whatever his plans for Jane and her raping, they would involve neither her husband nor her son.

The Dark Lord left the Brewery, and went to get Jane from the lavatory so he could escort her back to her room.

After he'd gone Bella shortly quitted the room as well, and Draco sunk into a nearby chair. Hunching his back, he buried his face in his hands.

"It's only for a day, Draco," his mother tried to console him as she closed the distance between them.

He didn't answer, just shook his head mutely.

Lucius strode carefully closer to him as well, feeling weak and undone, but wanting to make up for his own shortcomings as a father and a wizard, by offering his son some much-needed comfort. "You know that your mother and I, and even Bella, will never tell anyone about this. No one will ever know, Draco."

"I will," he muttered through his hands.

"I can Obliviate your memory afterward," his mother offered.

They all laughed a bit at her proposal, finding it funny because of her unmistakable sincerity.

But the humorous interlude was brief, as Draco's mind returned immediately to the magic that was even now being digested into his bloodstream. "You have to keep me away from her," he beseeched them, through gritted teeth.

"We will," Lucius said firmly. "You heard the Dark Lord. He'll kill us if anything untoward happens."

Draco just sat there taking deep breaths, trying not to burst into tears.

"Couldn't you just tie me up and lock me in a closet for the next twenty-four hours?" he asked desperately.

"We would. You know that we would, son," Cissa said, "but he told us that we have to observe you."

"Why is he doing this to me?" Draco cried in a voice aquiver with dread.

Lucius and Narcissa looked at one another over his head, but neither knew what to say. They knew why he was doing this to them. He hated them. But this knowing was too painful and frightening to think, let alone to say out loud, and it wasn't likely to offer Draco comfort.

Narcissa gently rested one of her pale hands across his shoulder. "It won't last forever dear. By this time tomorrow it will all be over, and none of us will ever mention it again."

Draco, still leaning over his lap, thrust his long hands into his silky, silvery hair and rubbed them over his skull a few times, then brought them back down to rub over his face again. He, like his mum and dad, rarely indulged in these physical expressions of anxiety, especially since it was a dangerous habit to get into these days. But, as it was just his parents to see, he let go of his control and allowed them access to the manifestations of his distress. At least he wasn't blubbering like a baby, which he felt on the threshold of doing at any moment.

He stood up and headed toward the door of the Brewery.

"Where are you going?" Lucius asked.

"I need to feed Vega," he told them on his way out.

"One of us can do it," Lucius called after him. But Draco didn't stop, and when he was gone Narcissa, restraining Lucius who'd made to follow his son, said, "Just let him be, Lucius."

Draco headed to his room under the pretext of taking care of his gorgeous eagle owl, Vega, and he _was_ planning to feed him, but mostly he wanted a moment to himself. He headed up the wide, carpeted staircase and practically sprinted to his room.

Once there, Draco leaned against his bedroom door for a moment and caught his breath.

His room was spacious, yet it was packed so tightly with bric-a-brac, as to make it seem quite cramped. He didn't like throwing anything away, even after he'd outgrown it, or just lost interest in it. To his left, two of the walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. They were thick, sturdy shelves, built into the walls, and made of a glossy teak. Every available inch was stacked up with scrolls, some antique ornaments that he'd inherited, miniature model broomsticks and action figurines, books (there were novels, old comic book collections, and he also kept all of his old schoolbooks), records for his phonograph, numerous boxes that were filled to the brim with pressed flowers, leaves, and jars of roots, all leftover from the years he'd created his botany collections, and plenty of other disparate paraphernalia. He also had two desks, one for his summer studies, and one for his extracurricular interests. The latter was littered with small model lunascopes, astronomy charts, and another box of botanical samples. He'd been immersed in these things during his fifteenth summer, before his dad was sent to prison, and, since then, he hadn't been able to conjure any renewed sense of zeal for them, but neither could he discard them. Somehow, disposing of these unused remnants would be tantamount to acknowledging, fully, that his childhood had ended too abruptly. And that wasn't something he was ready to do.

He had a small mahogany breakfast table in one corner beside the window, which he seldom used, and in front of his large fireplace were two overstuffed, behemoth armchairs, which he sat in almost everyday. His four-poster bed was large and each post was carved with intertwined serpents running up and down their lengths. His bed hangings were of an insulating brocade of a deep sea blue, embroidered with emerald snakes and broad-leafed vines. Draco had asked his parents if he could change the colors of his walls a couple of years ago and he'd chosen evergreen. Although his windows were large, he liked to keep the curtains drawn at least half-way, if not more, and even on bright summer days, his room was cast in heavy shadows; this created the effect of a murky forest, as though a green light filtered down through a heavy canopy of deciduous leaves. He, like his ancestors, preferred this dim ambiance and he never felt as home in bright lights as he did in the dark.

His mum complained, excessively in his opinion, about the cluttered state of his bedroom, and every time he returned home for a school holiday, he expected her to have cleared out all of his "junk", in his absence. But she never had; she respected his space and his wishes.

Draco didn't know why he was still keeping all the balls of strings he used to make cat's cradles and kites from when he was seven and eight years old. He just knew that, when he considered chucking them in the rubbish bin, it made him feel really sad, like he'd be throwing out his memories of his wacky aunt. His eccentric Auntie Zipporah had taught him how to weave the threads into complex skeins and it had seemed so magical to him then. He'd loved those bright balls of rough twine and soft cashmere when he was little, and spent hours playing with them. He thought they'd somehow imprinted on his soul and vice versa. All of his possessions seemed as much as a part of him as his long face, his white, spindly fingers, and his family pride.

He took a bleak solace from his room and his possessions as he went to Vega's cage and started refilling his food dish. He spoke to him softly when he went to his bathroom and got him some fresh water from the cold tap. Draco fed him some expensive, imported owl treats and gently stroked his soft brindled plumage.

Suddenly, feeling too tired to remain upright, he went to sit on his bed, and for some reason he started thinking about Pansy.

He pictured her puggy face and her cute figure. She'd been in most of his classes their entire time at Hogwarts together. But she hadn't made it into Advanced Potions. Pansy wasn't as dumb as Vince or Greg - she was never as far behind as either of them - but she often needed a few moments to cotton-on. That was when his interest in her had really begun to wane. He couldn't respect anyone who couldn't keep up with him academically. Greg and Vince thought he was foolish for breaking up with her, but they hadn't made it into many of the more sophisticated classes either. Pansy had seemed so ideal to those mongoloids, because she was not only a pure-blood with a nice body, but she also mimicked everything that Draco said, even the nonsensical things he'd said when he was goofing off and being facetious. A lot of the time she couldn't tell when he was serious or joking, so she just repeated everything, to be safe. At first he'd liked it, liked her, but after a while it'd gotten really, really boring.

Draco knew that Jane's deformity and her general ugliness was probably what bothered his mum the most, and that for his dad it was probably the fact that she wasn't even a witch. Out of everything that was repugnant about Jane, the vacuity of her abnormally large eyes and abnormally small mind were what bothered Draco most. And forget about dialogue. Vega was more communicative than her. She was just so fucking _dumb_. And now he was going to spend the rest of the day, and most likely part of tomorrow, obsessed with her.

Love potions were a nasty joke in the Slytherin common room. Many of boys talked about them like they were these really slick, aphrodisiacs, which could instantly part a pretty girl's legs. Draco couldn't believe he was about to lose his mind over an ugly mudblood.

He went to the lavatory and checked his eyes in the mirror. His corneas were beginning to spread. He started taking deep breaths to try and steady his nerves but wound up so dizzy had to sit down on the broad ledge of his enormous bath.

Fifteen minutes: that's how long Draco could feel the obsession setting in, yet remained aware enough of himself and his surroundings to realize that none of it was real. The magical illusion transposed his consciousness like a waking nightmare. He felt like there were two discordant notes playing inside of his mind, trying to harmonize with each other and failing miserably. It was excruciating.

And then it was gone. Over. His identity, his parents and his heritage, his aversion to Plain Lame Jane, his distaste of her unhygienic approach to…well everything, her barren, empty eyes; everything that made him Draco Malfoy, and every reason that made her as repulsive to him as pus and phlegm, faded, blurred, and eventually disappeared.

He had to find her! Jane, Jane, Jane Wellington. Jane. Wellington. What a brilliant, unique name she had! But would she understand how much he needed her? He had to let her know somehow, anyhow that he loved her! Merlin's beard but she was desirable!

Where was she? Oh yes, she was with what's-his-name, Voldemort.

Suddenly the words 'virgin's blood' came back to him and Draco felt enraged. He couldn't _touch_ her! Draco would die if Lord Crazyface touched his gorgeous nymphet. She was so above him, above everyone.

Draco pictured her on a pedestal, looking down on him and smiling. It wasn't high enough, so his imagination had to raise her plinth to cloudy heights, and it planted some red, blooming rose bushes around the foundations of her lofty perch.

Roses were a good start, but what Jane really needed was diamonds. And gold. He had plenty of gold in the family vault. But would it be enough for her? Well, the world's tallest mountain of galleons wouldn't begin to encompass her worth, but the large mound of it in the Malfoys' vault at Gringotts would have to be a start. With the quickness of his immediate purpose, Draco went to his hefty wardrobe and rifled through the drawers at the base of it, until he found an antique jewelry box. From it, he produced his great-great-grandmother's sapphire and diamond studded bracelet. His parents had given it to him on his birthday a couple of months ago, and instructed him to bestow it on his future wife, on their fifth year anniversary. Who could have foreseen then, that he would have found the next Mrs. Malfoy in such a short amount of time? Not him. But really, when Draco tried to think about it objectively, this was kismet. The love of his life had been hiding in plain sight all along! And the stars and all the forces of a benevolent universe had conspired to bring him his Aphrodite at an early date, to save him the agony of searching for her!

Draco left his room at a chirpy dash, and covered the distance to Jane's room in a matter of moments. Without knocking, he burst into the room and rapidly, but never fast enough, he closed the distance between himself and his resplendent sweetheart.

He fell to one knee, and offering up the expensive heirloom, he blurted, "Will you marry me, Jane?"

His darling bride crossed her arms, blushed profusely, and didn't end his anguish by accepting his feeble attempt to bribe her with precious gems. She was too good for such earthly materialistic artifices and her refusal of the bracelet only enhanced her appeal to Draco.

The snake burst into cavalier peals of evil-laced glee.

And, in words that would haunt him for weeks afterward, Draco turned to Lord Would-be-Usurper and said, "You can't have her! Jane and I are meant to be together!"

But this simply set the maniac into further patents of dissonant humor.

Draco reached for his wand, completely oblivious in his muddled frame of mind to the fact that he would never be a match for the Dark Lord, even on his own best day, and his master's worst. When he remembered that Potter had stolen his wand, months ago at this point, he balled his fist, pulled his arm back, and made ready to smash the arrogance right off of that disgusting creature, who was threatening, perhaps seducing, his _raison d' etre_.

Thankfully - and later he would assign this auspicious intervention to some unnamed favonian power - his mum and dad appeared in the doorway of Jane's room, and with a millisecond assessment of the situation, Cissa used her wand to freeze him mid-swing, and pull him away from the lethal person he'd been on the point of assaulting. She took him to the sitting room and set him on the sofa. He was indignant about this betrayal, and from his own mother, no less! And he issued a steady barrage of profanities at both of his parents, the entire way.

Draco, who was an extrovert by nature, kept up a continuous stream of verbal threats and impassioned pleas for his release. "You'd better pay homage to the deities of our ancestors, that I haven't got a wand at this point _Mother_. Because if I had one, I'd curse you into your grave this second, for keeping me away from the perfection of my future bride, woman!" he told her savagely. "What if he's having sex with her? What if he's hurting her, Mother? I have to go to her, please!" He struggled against his invisible bonds, desperate to see his little Jane again. "Please! Mother, she needs me! We're going to be so happy her and me! You'll let her call you mother, won't you? Dad, you too! You two have to make her feel like a part of the family, or I'll never speak to you again. Where is she?" He gave an extra hard wriggle and fell over onto his side. "Let me go, _damn you_! I need her! Jane! Jane!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

This was what drove Draco to the sadistic heights of cruelty that followed in the next week. If he'd just been able to keep his mouth closed, the disgrace wouldn't have been so glaring, so complete, once the Amorentia had finally cleared his system. But every disgusting thought that came into his jumbled head, spewed from his mouth like some feculent font.

Lucius and Narcissa were trying to maintain their composure. Narcissa almost wanted to laugh, but only to keep herself from crying. Lucius was so angry at the disrespectful way Draco was speaking to his mother that it was all he could do from using Cissa's wand to try and knock some sense into him. He had to keep telling himself, over and over like a mantra, that it was the Amorentia steering, not Draco.

When his mother finally relinquished him from the spells that were binding him, keeping Draco safely away from the all-powerful man they called Master, he was positively livid. She hadn't done this until Jane was done being debriefed by the Dark Lord a little while later, and had rejoined them in the sitting room. His fury had only lasted about five seconds though; for once his petite goddess was within his sight, all he could focus on was her glorious presence, whereas, moments before, all he could concentrate on was the torment of her absence.

She wanted to go outside for her daily dose of fresh air and 'esersize'. Damn, her mispronunciation of words that were more than two syllables was absolutely endearing! How had he failed to realize, all this time, how precious and superb she was?

As they were taking her outside so she could make the flowers and the clear blue skies weep with jealousy with the exquisiteness of her person, Draco admired the way she took the stairs. In times past, before he'd seen the despicable error of his ways, Draco hadn't understood how absolutely adorable his Jane was, when she clambered and descended the staircases of their immense manor. Because of her quirky and, well, he had to face it, _exceptional_ formation, when Jane needed to go up a stairway, she had to pull her whole, left leg up every step, and always bring the ingenious, plastic one up behind it. And when she was on her way down, as she was now, she needed to employ an oppositional method for her descent. She lowered the artificial leg first, and only once it was planted firmly on the lower step, could she then bring the complete extremity to rest beside it. And so on and so forth. It was like an elegant little dance, he realized. And he told her so.

"It's so cute the way you go up and down the stairs, Jane. I'm sorry that I didn't notice or tell you how elegant and graceful you are before now. I'm sorry for the times I wasn't as sweet to you as I should have been. I said loads of rubbish things to you that I never should have said," he told her, in an indefatigable rush. He needed her to understand how much he loved her, how far he would go to make her his. "I never wanted to say any of that stuff, to you, you know. My mum and dad, told me to do it. They made me, actually. My mum threatened to curse me if I wasn't rude to you," he improvised swiftly. Narcissa, who was only a few feet away, couldn't prevent herself from huffing in disgust. "You forgive me don't you?" He grabbed at her arm, in his desperation and sincerity. But, looking a bit embarrassed, and inexplicably startled, she pulled away from him and turned her superlative eyes to his mum, for some reason. "Please, Jane! You _have_ to forgive me for all that rubbish I said to you before! I didn't understand before how good and perfect you are! Truly! You know that don't you, Jane?"

She wasn't responding properly. He would kill himself if he couldn't make her understand how important and perfect she was to him!

He lithely put himself a few paces down the steps, and planted himself firmly in front of her. She couldn't keep going down these treacherous stairs until he was sure she knew how adamantly he adored and needed her!

Draco made a calculated swipe and managed to grip her wrists in his hands. How complete and validated he felt with her skin next to his. It was the pinnacle of ecstasies and he groaned with the unparalleled pleasure of it. But she was trying to free herself from his grip every second.

"Jane, you and I are meant to be with each other! You see that, don't you? Don't you?!"

Why wasn't she saying anything to him? She just kept getting redder and redder and wouldn't confirm the declarations of his intentions and desires to make her his. She finally managed to get her arms free from his clutch.

If he took a knife, and slit his wrists in front of her, would she then be able to see how much she meant to him? He didn't see this as too dramatic in the least, but rather as a perfect climax to display his feelings for her. She wouldn't be able to help seeing that, in the end.

"If I bleed myself for you Jane, then will you see how ardently I love and admire you? Jane, you're perfect to me. If I were to look up the word 'perfect' in the dictionary, there, I'd find a picture of your dazzling likeness. But no paltry photograph of your effulgent face will ever be sufficient to accurately replicate the precision of your grace and your excellent form."

"Alright, Draco," his dad interposed. "She understands how much you love her. Now let's take her outside for som …'_esercize_'."

Draco didn't like the mocking way his father imitated Jane's idiosyncratic way of saying 'exercise'. Lucius made it sound like something silly or pathetic, when in fact, it was all a part of her indefinable allure. Jane was so above books and intellect. She understood things, transcendent things, which neither he nor his parents could ever grasp with their flawed, materialistic natures. It was simply a mark of Lucius' flawed human nature, that he wasn't capable of seeing this as clearly as Draco could.

There was this saying, that people used went they wanted to describe something as false or illusionary. "It's all hinkypunk lights and amorentia fumes," they would say. But Draco felt as though the potion he'd drunk earlier that afternoon had clarified him, swept out all the cobwebs from the corners of his mind. The Amorentia was allowing him to see Jane for the succulent seraphim that she truly was; she was his glowing, panoramic paramour.

He kept reaching out to try and touch her again, and she kept trying to retreat up the staircase backward. Jane finally tripped and landed on the edge of a step. She gasped. His mum and dad laughed like hyenas. (Later, Draco would realize that their unusually vehement outburst precipitated from everything that was happening to him, over which his mum and dad were infuriated and horrified by, but couldn't control. They really wanted Jane to suffer, but couldn't cause her to with magic, physical abuse, or any other tangible means, so all they could do was laugh at the injuries she sustained due to her own clumsiness, point out her ignorance and stupidity to her as often as they could, and congratulate themselves on not being as pathetic as her.)

"You two are so mean!" he shouted at them.

And Draco helped her up. "Are you okay, Jane? Are you hurt too badly? Do you need to sit down, love? Would you like me to get you some of your medisinine?"

She gave him a disconcerted look, rubbed her bottom a bit, shook her head, extracted herself from the arm he still had draped around her, and preceded down the stairs.

Once they'd reached the nook, his mum and dad settled down at the black, iron table, Lucius to read and Cissa to peel some hupplekink stalks, and Jane sat down beside them. She took one of the oranges from the fruitbowl that Martha placed there for them every afternoon, and she began to remove the tough outer husk.

"Would you like me to do that for you Jane?"

He'd pulled a chair up to sit closely beside her and couldn't take his eyes off of her.

"Ain you's gonna ride your broom today?" she asked, pulling back the fruit he was trying to take from her, so he could assist her with it.

Sensing an opportunity to have his delectable lover all to himself, he asked, "Why don't you and I go for a ride on it?"

She shook her head, not looking at him.

"Why not?"

"I-I don' like bein' 'igh like that," she confessed softly.

"I won't go very high. There's this beautiful meadow a couple kilometers out. You'd love it there, Jane. There are all these gorgeous wildflowers, not that they even compare to you, dear," he said. "Please let me show you."

She shook her head, and then she tilted her head up and met his eyes, just for a moment.

That was when Draco noticed the color of her eyes for the first time. It took his breath away.

"Mum! Dad! Look at her eyes! Did you see that?" he exclaimed.

His parents mumbled no and didn't pay him any heed.

"Turn your head this way again," he commanded.

She didn't comply, so he gently took her by the chin and lifted her head up. He saw it again. Jane didn't pull herself from his grasp this time, but kept her eyes on him as he studied them. When he reached out and took off her glasses, she just sat there still as a stone and allowed him to examine her amazing irises.

The high afternoon sun was angling across them, and where the light was shining directly on them, they were a delicious apple green. But on the side of her eyes that were cast in the shadows from the ridge of her eyebrows, they were teal crescents. The slivers in between the sun and the darkness were a brilliant aquamarine.

Narcissa looked up from her task and noticed the pair of them, her son's hand holding Jane's face, their eyes locked.

"What are you doing to him, Poisson?" she asked furiously.

Lucius, startled by his wife's stern tone, looked up from his book.

"Mum, Dad, come here," Draco said. "Look at Jane's eyes."

Narcissa, determined to put an end to the touching, set down the stalks she was in the process of unsheathing and came around the table.

She looked at Jane and meant to admonish her, but when she caught sight of the mudblood's eyes the words she was about to say stuck in her throat.

Narcissa leaned in for a closer look at them. Jane's eyes reminded Cissa of a tropical sea, lapping gently over a white-sand beach.

Lucius, curious about what was going on with the cripple's eyes, came to see what the fuss was about. He leaned down as well, and studied her unique irises for a moment. Lucius thought that, framed by her long, thick, inky lashes, her eyes looked like rare, priceless jewels.

"Your eyes are amazing, my love," Draco told her.

But his words made her blush again and she sat back from him, snatched her glasses from his hand, and put them back on her face.

"Aren't they beautiful, Mum?"

Narcissa went back to her seat and said, "They're sort of nice. I guess."

Draco snorted at this inadequate praise.

A few more minutes passed without incident, except that Draco kept trying to hold Jane's hand under the pretense of helping her peel her orange. In spite of Draco's 'assistance', she eventually managed to complete the undressing of her snack, and then slowly separated each citrus wedge and ate them, one by one. Draco wished he were her orange. He wanted to be inside of her mouth.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Jane addressed Narcissa respectfully.

Cissa silently looked up from her work.

"Will you's come wif me to the garden? I's be wanna go walk there."

Narcissa understood why Jane was asking her to accompany her on a walk, something she'd never done before. Jane was always allowed unfettered access to the woods surrounding the manor, and she never minded wandering around on her own. But today Jane had a suitor that she didn't wish to be alone with, so she needed Cissa's presence for her daily stroll.

"I'll come with you, Jane," Draco immediately offered. He stood up quickly, dragging the legs of his chair abrasively across the flagstones, so they screeched. He managed to grab her hand and tried to gently pull her up. But Jane's blue-green eyes were fixed gloomily on his mother.

Narcissa sighed. "Not today, Jane. I think perhaps we should go inside soon. Why don't you use your chalks to draw a picture?"

Jane did as Cissa suggested and Draco followed her to the nearby place where she'd chosen to sketch. She carefully lowered herself to the pavement, with plenty of unsolicited help from Draco, and started selecting the colors she was in the mood to use. Draco stretched out beside her, nestled his head in his hand, and watched her pull each piece of chalk from the box and line them up uniformly, side by side.

Draco couldn't take his eyes off of her the entire time she was working on her picture. He kept up a poetic monologue as he watched her. He compared her beauty to that found in nature, the moon, the night skies and the stars – "But none of it compares to your heavenly body" – he contrasted Jane to the portraits of his better looking female ancestors peppered throughout the manor – "They pale beside your transcendent beauty, my sweet Jane", and Lucius had released a derisive noise and quietly mumbled, "_Most_ people are pale beside her" – and Draco kept asking her to marry him. Other than an infrequent blush, she didn't respond to him through the majority of it.

She kept disarranging her skirt and shift to scratch at her thighs, and every time she did Draco was treated to some sumptuous glimpses of her tight knickers. He focused his eyes on the outlined mound of her sex, and fancied he could even see tendrils of her dark, delicate pubic hair. _Sacre bleu_ ! He could feel his own sex tightening and longed to press it against hers. Even her dark knobby knees, each overlaid with some mottled sepia scabs, were unbelievably appealing to him. He wanted to kiss each bony protrusion, and then he pictured himself creating salivating trails up the scintillating paths of her inner thighs. He longed to gorge himself on every delectable inch of Jane, sweet Jane. Every piece of her flesh that he rested his eyes on seemed like a veritable feast. Draco was dying to suck on each of her fingers, and clean off the chalky residue until his tongue had memorized the minute stippling of her tiny ten pads.

When the appetizing images of her legs were hindered by her clothing he focused on her incomparable face. He memorized her mouth. He found himself intrigued by the anomalous arching shape of her full upper lip, and noticed for the first time that, because there was no typical downward dip over the top of it, the skin between the bottom of her nose and the top of her lip was deficient of the centric indentation that most people possesed. Draco wanted to trace his tongue over the upward curves of the tasty corners; he found the subtle sloping contours intoxicatingly enigmatic. The shape of her lips, combined with the rich, poinsettia coloring, brought to mind a glass of full-bodied, vintage wine. If only he could dip into the swampy well of her parted lips and drink her secret nectar.

"How's your face, love? Does it hurt where that cruel woman hit you?"

She didn't answer.

"Your cheek looks a little puffy." He reached out and softly tried to trace his finger down the smooth, mocha-colored skin of her face. She reached up and pushed his hand away from her.

"Where did you grow up?"

She ignored him.

"How many children would like?"

She swatted at a fly that was buzzing around her ear.

He watched Jane dig around her nose for a minute, remove a big, slimy bogey, examine it for a moment, and put it in her mouth. He sighed contentedly as he gazed at her rapturously, and thought to himself, _She's such a lady_ !

"Do you have a middle name?"

She shook her head that time.

"Would you like to play a game with me when we go back upstairs?"

She looked at him. Nodded slightly.

He smiled at her. She looked away. Didn't return it.

"Do you want to play some noughts and crosses when you're done drawing?"

She shrugged.

"Your picture's very nice. I've always admired the way you draw and paint, sweetheart."

"Do you mind if I call you that?"

She didn't respond.

Wanting to gage her reaction, Draco leaned up and deposited a trial kiss on her cheek.

THWACK!

Narcissa and Lucius were on their feet in a heartbeat and rushed to where their lovesick son sat next to the object of his undying affection.

"Don't you dare hit him, you filthy little scab!" Lucius yelled at her.

Jane was outraged. So was Draco, on her behalf.

"Don't speak to her that way, Father!" Draco shouted.

Jane had her own opinion to impart. "I's hittin' anybodies be tryin' to kiss on me! Don' care if they's chanted, or bein' not chanted!"

Draco had a perfect silhouette of Jane's small handprint on his cheek, which was swiftly reddening, and it contrasted sharply against his white skin.

Jane was attempting to scramble to her feet, her disconcertion making her more awkward than usual, and Draco grabbed her at her armpits and hoisted her upward.

"You stupid barbarian!" Narcissa was fuming. "If you lay hands on him again I'll thrash you with a paddling board! I don't care if you _do_ tell the Dark Lord on me!" Her hands were shaking.

"You's better be keepin' 'im 'way from's me!" Jane wailed. She was waving her arms at him frantically and kept trying to push him away from her side. "Stays way from me!"

"If you do that, then I'll thrash _you_, Mother! Jane and I were going to wait until supper to tell you this, but she's agreed to marry me," Draco lied, ignoring Jane's slim, impotent arms that were trying to maneuver him away, but which he just kept right on trying to hold onto.

"I's twelve, asshole! I's ain marryinin' no one!"

Martha poked her head out the kitchen door, drawn to the commotion.

Lucius saw the inquisitive maid and drew his wife's attention to their unwelcome audience.

Narcissa raised her wand and cast a Confundus charm at Martha, and thought _Our dinner will be ruined now . _

Martha, glassy-eyed, went back inside.

"We'd better settle down now," Lucius cautioned his wife in a collected tone.

Lucius was so disgusted and confused by Jane. If he and Narcissa had a daughter, or indeed, even a young niece that was close to them, he might have felt more confident when they had to deal with the adolescent. But her dirty, pre-pubescent presence unsettled him so systematically that he would often just retreat to the background and allow his wife to handle all the necessary interactions. Lucius knew how to handle almost anyone, the wealthy and elite, politicians and Minister's for Magic, sadistic Death Eaters and even their master, but he melted into a flaccid puddle of uncertainty in the face of an inarticulate, stinky twelve year old girl.

Narcissa took a few steps toward Jane, until she was almost in her face, but Jane didn't look in the least bit scared and didn't back away. Draco was squawking in the background, protective and ranting about his love for the disgusting cripple, but Narcissa was so fixed on Jane that she could hardly hear his diatribe.

"I meant what I said, mudblood," she told her calmly.

"So's did I," Jane returned just as softly, having to tilt her head back sharply to maintain eye contact with the sleek, blonde witch, whose own head was looming almost a whole foot above her black,wooly one. Draco's potion-induced invectives were still playing behind them, and Lucius was a few feet away from them. Jane and Narcissa faced one another in a contained bubble of mutual, tangible animosity. "You's better keep 'im way from me. I's ain toleraterd bein' kissed at by's anybody. Don' care 'ow pure 'is blood be's. Iffin' 'e's tryin' it again, I'll kick 'is baby-maker. So better keep 'im way from me."

Narcissa's cheeks were flushed with her fury and her hand was twitching uncontrollably as she weighed the satisfaction she would feel by unleashing her rage on the insolent, unflinching child before her, against the consequences she would suffer were she to gratify the impulse. She raked her eyes scornfully up and down Jane's contemptuous personage. "I'll beat you senseless, child. If the Dark Lord finds out that a muddy-blooded _speck_ like you was smacking a noble Malfoy such as Draco he won't care if you have to suffer some consequences. Kick him and you'll be sorry brat," she told her, deciding that she needed to tread carefully. "Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon, but rest assured I'll make you sorry."

Jane's eyes changed. They lost their rocky resolve, melted to forlorn pools of contrition and supplication. "_Please_, Mrs. Malfoy. I's ain' wantin' no fight wif you. But I's don' wanna be kissed at or touched. Please, makes 'im be stopped it," she pleaded

A surge of something close to sympathy rose in Cissa's breast. Narcissa rested her hand on Jane's shoulder and said, "Lucius and I can't make him stop as that would be contrary to the Dark Lord's wishes. However," she added, seeing Jane's lower lip begin trembling, "we won't let him harm you. You can be sure about that, Poisson. Just make sure, other than when you slip away later this evening, that you don't leave my sight.

"Let's go inside now," Cissa told the mudblood and her family.

Nobody protested. Cissa waved her wand across the stones around their feet and gathered the scattered chalk pieces, and returned them to their box.

Draco couldn't have cared less where they went, as long as he could be with his Jane.

Once they were situated back in the sitting room, Draco, much as it pained him to leave her side for a moment, hurried to his room and retrieved a modest stack of games which with to entice his dark beauty to play with him.

Jane took up the deck of playing cards and shuffled them a few times. She told him that they were going to play a game called "Go fish"; she explained the simple rules to him while she dealt each of them a small stack to hold and then arranged the remainder on the floor between them in a circular pattern: "the pond".

But Draco hadn't paid much attention to the rules. He'd been much too busy mentally admiring her. After a bit, when it was getting more and more obvious that Draco was much too enamored with her to be an engaged partner, Jane lost her enthusiasm for the game.

Despite his pleas for her to play with him, she wandered over to one of the smaller sofas and sat down next Narcissa, something she never did normally. If Jane had sat herself beside his mum on any other day, Cissa would have removed herself to another seat. But today she didn't. With her and Jane side by side, Draco didn't have room to sit next to Jane. He started to squash himself between them, but they'd both protested, so then he'd tried to perch on the armrest closest to Jane, but his mother had threatened him with her wand. Finally, he'd had to sit on the floor in front of his scrumptious honey.

Jane seemed quite miserable for the rest of the afternoon. Draco had even tried following her to the lavatory, so Narcissa had to freeze him with her wand. She'd gotten so fed up with his loud imprecations, and his lovelorn declarations for the wildchild who was hardly housebroken, that she'd also cast a silencing charm on him until Jane rejoined them ten minutes later.

When she went to her room later, she came back in an uncharacteristically short amount of time and told them that she couldn't slip away. As she had looked at Draco while she related this, they were in no doubt that their son's sad condition was directly responsible for it. They could only hope that this unhappy development would prove as ephemeral as the love potion.

That night Draco hadn't been able to sleep. His mother had locked the door after Jane had gone to bed, and she and Lucius decided to sleep with their own door open. However, after his parents had gone to bed, Draco had crept slowly down the hall and knocked softly on her door. He kept jiggling the door handle, hoping that it might unlock itself in deference for his wishes. The imaginary picture of his one true love kept popping up in the forefront of his mind's eye. He was exhausted, and eventually his head began pounding, but he couldn't drag himself off the floor and go to bed. Finally, he lost consciousness. And when he awoke, it was, thankfully, over.


	16. A Little Knowlegde

**A Little Knowledge**

A little learning is a dangerous thing;  
drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:  
there shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,  
and drinking largely sobers us again. – Alexander Pope, _An Essay on Criticism_

**September 10****th****, 1998**

Lucius was in his study, trying to delude himself into thinking that he was still busy and important. In reality, he was drinking some expensive bourbon, and thinking about the romance novel he'd just finished reading. It was the new Pure-blood Passion book that he'd purchased his wife for a Christmas present. He hadn't meant to read it, hadn't even enjoyed it that much. But all of his other books were so heavy. They were either non-fiction books about magic, which depressed him, or they were about protagonists that he couldn't relate to anymore. Potent men of action, solving mysteries, overcoming the nefarious, inventing colossal, ground-breaking spells and potions, and these fictitious wizards were just as dampening to his spirits. All he could stomach these days was whether or not the ravishing Lavinia Dashwood would secure the love of her handsome, rich, purebred betrothed. Yes, she would. She always would.

"Have you thought anymore about what I said to you two evenings ago?"

"Not really, Father," Lucius said absentmindedly.

"Well, you should," the portrait of Abraxas chided.

Lucius's study was an opulent testimony of longstanding luxury and refinement. The floors and shelves were made of sound, well-aged oak, and his sturdy, lavishly carved desk was an inherited masterpiece of craftsmanship, bequeathed him by his maternal, heirless Uncle Thuby; out of all his male cousins who had coveted the precious thing, it had come to him. The wide, tall windows faced out onto the east side of the manor and gave him a gentle, twilit view of an evening, each season bringing a separate but equal pleasure. Lucius loved his study and all of the beautiful trappings it afforded him. The titanic desk, the spacious armchairs, and every priceless antique were situated to his comfort around the splendid proportions of the room. The study was his own small sanctuary, much the way Cissa's was her dressing room, and he retreated to his private mew when he needed to get away from the bustle of life, or occasionally his wife, or, these days, the sight of a mudblood in his manor.

Lucius opened the shallow drawer in the center of his desk and brought out his leather pipe pouch. He carefully untied the fastenings, withdrew his sleek, curved calabash, and began to carefully layer the soft fragrant tobacco into the bowl with a well-practiced hand.

"Why are you ignoring me, Lucius?" Abraxas asked.

Lucius, without a wand, had to use a small, silver flamfactum to light the pipe. He sucked at the bit vigorously a few times, making sure the embers were well caught, and cottony plumes of smoke engulfed his face until he fanned a dispersing hand through it.

"I'm not ignoring you Father," he finally spoke, relaxing into the winecolour, velvet-backed chair. "I'm smoking."

Abraxas, Rosamunde, all of the numerous Malfoys depicted in the moving, verbose portraits throughout the manor - that they had all, at some point, been the masters and mistresses of - were insufferable nowadays. Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and even to an extent Bella, were treated daily to a nonstop hail of criticisms from the tiresome paintings. It had begun when the Dark Lord decided to use Malfoy Manor as his headquarters, waned over the last year as they were magically and repeatedly silenced by Cissa and Bella and threatened with the attic, and then had revived anew upon the appearance of the mudblood. They were only now getting manageable again, but only just. Lucius couldn't really blame his ancestors for their shock and disappointment at their descendants' failures. If he were in their positions, Lucius knew he would behave the same way. Malfoys weren't renowned for their compassion.

"I'm trying to advise you son," Abraxas said quietly.

"I'm trying to enjoy my pipe in peace, Father," Lucius returned.

"You used to listen to me," the portrait softly imparted.

Lucius sighed heavily and rubbed at his left temple. He was getting another headache.

"About money," his son uttered.

"About everything," Abraxas retorted.

"When I was fifteen," Lucius said, and sighed again.

If he still had his wand, the same wand that the portrait of his father was holding and which Lucius had lost, he'd cast the _Silencio_ charm on him. However, he didn't have the Malfoy wand anymore, and he was contemplating bringing out the attic warning once more. It was _so _trying. Why couldn't his father just leave him to smoke in peace?

But his father had never left him peace. Not even when Lucius was grown, and married, and a father in turn. Abraxas Malfoy had always been there, advising, blustering, withholding his approval and occasionally access to the vault, and making Lucius miserable in some form or another. When he'd finally given in to the Dragon Pox, Lucius had been quite terrified for some moments afterward that his father would reappear as a ghost, and continue haunting him for the rest of his life. He'd wanted to feel sad about his father's passing, had really tried to, but all he'd experienced was a blessed relief – like a considerable burden had been dissolved from his chest. Narcissa, though to the outward public she had seemed properly bereft – wearing black dresses and affecting a sedate carriage - had seemed more carefree in private, quicker to laugh and often flirtatious, as though she were reveling in the freedom that she knew Lucius experienced. It was such a happy time for them both.

"I told you not to get involved with him," Abraxas said, unable to keep quiet even from a frame.

Lucius released a low, throaty chuckle which smacked of skepticism.

"I did," Abraxas insisted. "I told you when you were twenty-two that he was trouble."

"You said that the gods of our ancestors had brought him to abolish the muggle blight, and that anybody who died in his service would be reserved a special place in the highest paradises off of Mount Olympus," Lucius reminded him.

"I wasn't talking about you and you know it, Lucius," Abraxas said, visibly stiffening at this unpleasant speech, his grey sideburns and moustache waggling, doing a kind of wardance. Lucius had begun laughing again, and so the portrait had to speak up. "I never meant for you to join his ranks, and risk your life, Lucius. Malfoys don't participate in battles and duels like foolhardy Gryffindors. We stay in the background and hedge our bets. I was adamant, all those years ago, that laying low and letting others do the dirty work was the key to staying on top of the whole blasted war!"

"In case it's escaped your attention, Father, the Dark Lord doesn't brook the sort of prevarication you're referring to. When you try to sidestep his blunt language you find yourself on the wrong side of his wand and forced into a more forthright frame of mind than you've ever known you were capable of achieving." Toward the end of this, Lucius's voice had soured.

"But Lucius, you brought yourself to his attention," Abraxas spat, leaning forward in his gargantuan chair. "You sought an audience with him, let him brand you, and accepted a mask from him! _Why_, eh? Why did you do all that when I advised you to try and stay off of his path?"

_Because I was an idealistic fool of a young man whose home-life was stifling and unbearable_, Lucius thought. And it was a post-teenage rebellion. There'd been some fuss over his wanting to marry Narcissa, because of her sister, Droma, and Lucius wanted – nay, needed – some outlet for his frustration with the pure-blood and mudblood clash. He'd convinced himself it was his duty to purge the world of magic of the interloping scum. He wished now that he'd listened to Abraxas, but it was no use crying over spilt potion.

Aloud he simply muttered, "Because I wanted to make a difference."

Lucius took a deep, satisfying drag from the pipe and released the sweet and sour tendrils of smoke slowly through his nose, allowing the subtle aromas of the expensive tobacco blend to linger in his nasal cavities.

"Lucius, you have to get them out of our house," Abraxas said.

Lucius ignored him.

"There's something off about that mudblood," he came again.

Lucius rolled his eyes and then shut them as he pulled gently at the warm mouthpiece of his pipe to feed the embers the air they needed to remain active and aglow.

"She probably knows where Potter is," Abraxas said.

"Do you need to go the attic, Father?" Lucius intoned without much conviction. He was so tired. It was hard for him to strike the proper ring of authority this evening.

"She doesn't act right," Abraxas said, unable to drop it.

This had always been his father's way. He could never let anything go.

"She's a mudblood. She acts the way we assumed she would," Lucius replied without opening his eyes.

"Lucius, I'm telling you once and for all, that girl is an actress," said the portrait firmly.

"I'm sincerely hoping, for the sake of your position on the wall of my study, that this really will be the last time you tell me this," Lucius said resolutely, opening his eyes, sitting up, and fastening his cool grey eyes on the painting hung between the enormous windows.

"Just think about it, Lucius," Abraxas counseled him delicately. "No one knows for sure where she comes from. Have you or Narcissa ever asked her where she comes from? No. She was helping Dumbledore from such a young age? _Dumbledore_? You believe that?"

"What does that even mean?"

"I know that you and I, for the most part, saw eye to eye about that man. He was stupid for allowing the muggle-born pupils of Hogwarts an equal standing among the pure-bloods. But there were always lines he wouldn't cross, Lucius."

"I don't know what you're getting at."

"Do you mean to tell me that you actually believe a man like Dumbledore, would take a brainless, immature, nine-year-old girl, and turn her into a tool to spy on You-Know-Who?"

Lucius closed his eyes again, trying to shut out the image of the condescending look in his father's eyes. It was the same look and patronizing tone he'd used time and time again with him when he was alive. "Yes," he answered tersely.

"Why?"

"Because she was useful to him," Lucius said in exasperation, as though he were trying to explain to a simpleton that one and one make two.

"That's something You-Know-Who would do. Not a wizard like Dumbledore!" Abraxas shouted. He seemed to sense from the basilisk look he was receiving from his son, that he might have gone too far, because he gathered his emotions and started again in a calmer tone. "Lucius, you have to know your enemies better than your friends. I knew Dumbledore better than you, and I'm telling you that using a dumb little girl to gather information on somebody like your master isn't something he would have lowered himself to do."

"So, she's what? A diabolical genius?" Lucius asked sardonically, and laughed again at the absurdity of it.

"I don't pretend to know what she is son," Abraxas told him carefully. "I just know…she isn't what she seems."

"How do you know that? You always say that you can tell, but you never say how. So go on then, Father, enlighten me. What _exactly_ makes you think the stinky troglodyte is so…wily?" Lucius implored, and raised his eyebrows to affect a look of mock interest.

Abraxas sighed heavily at the sarcastic expression his son was giving him. But he leaned forward a little and attempted to reason with him. "She says that she's twelve and she's still playing with dolls. You don't think that's odd?"

Lucius scoffed. "No!" he insisted.

"She's too gross!"

"Of course she's gross! She's a soulless animal, Father. A mudblood. She's the reason we don't want her kind polluting our world," he huffed. He was trying to give his father the benefit of the doubt, for once, to humour him on the off chance that he could have a useful point. But, as usual, Lucius was disappointed and regretted beginning.

"But it's so…exaggerated, Lucius. You don't think all of her belching and her nose-picking and her refusal to bathe is a bit too much?"

"Of course it's too much. Even should she only engage in one of those behaviors, let alone all three, it would always be too much!" Lucius said loudly, the pounding in his temple increasing it's tempo as his heart rate elevated.

Lucius knew why his father's portrait was wasting his time with this ridiculous ruse. He just wanted attention. He still wanted Lucius to think he was omniscient, and it was pathetic.

"Have you, or any of the other portraits in the manor, seen her doing anything contrary to her usual behavior when she's by herself?"

Abraxas sighed, studied his son mutely, and then shook his head briefly.

Lucius got up and strode to the window.

The heat of summer was softening to a milder degree; some cooler breezes signaling the onset of winter. Even though he wasn't fond of winter, Lucius could feel his spirits flip-flopping with a weak pleasure at the thought of autumn. He really enjoyed the variegation the crisp air lent to the massive trees in the woods around the manor. The vibrant orange and yellow leaves were such a sight to behold from the view of his study.

Lucius had a perfect life a couple of years ago, before Azkaban. Why hadn't he seen that then? Why had he been so desperate for more? He would give anything…

He'd only wanted to make the world a better place. He wanted to know that his son, and all of the Malfoy descendants, would always be recognized as the superior wizards and witches that their blood line made them. He wanted all of England to understand how fine Draco was. The day Draco was born was one of the happiest moments of his life. He'd proved such a welcome addition to the family, through every stage of his development, making them laugh with his ignorant childish questions and his guileless mischief. All the gold in the world was useless without a child to give it to - a piece of himself for a father to bring up and instruct. What would happen to Draco now? What had Lucius done?

And he thought of Narcissa. His beautiful, beautiful wife and her fortitude and her impeccable comportment; it didn't matter about Andromeda, or for that matter Bellatrix. Cissa was steady and upright. His fair goddess, his perfect potioneer, had always made him happy, always taken care of him as well as he'd always taken care of her. She didn't sit down and ask for help when she could be doing. He thought of her lovely pale hands, cutting, skinning, sheathing, preparing potion ingredients, never idle, though her patrimony gave her every right to unlimited leisure. He pictured her in a satin and lace nightdress at her dressing table; he'd seen her there so many times, all he had to do was close his eyes and he could see her so vividly. A slim, shapely leg visible through the part in her dressing gown, her delicate blue-veined wrists, her poised laughter and a saucy gleam in her eyes as she related a tidbit of meaty gossip passed on from one her friends. Her slender fingers nimbly brushing, pinning, painting - employed like magic. She'd given him everything that she could, always. She'd faithfully and uncomplainingly nursed himself and their son through every illness, made a point of having their favorite dishes frequently on the table, and done dozens of other small things to anticipate his wishes. And she did it all with such an easy, graceful way, never expecting thanks for all she did, or even notice. He couldn't count the many times had he been on the point of leaving home, on his way to an important meeting with a minister or governor, to inveigle or, if needed, bribe and coerce, and Cissa had stopped him, said, 'No, Lucius, that cravat doesn't go with that vest', or, 'Lucius, you shouldn't wear the fop watch with that set', and then she went to his jewelry cabinet and selected a more suitable piece for him. She was ever the maven, wanting him to look his best because Narcissa understood, better than anyone, how important appearances are and will always be.

Lucius thought of his small, perfect family and ignored the gabby portrait of the dead father he had spent so much of his life at odds with. He would move his paintings to the attic tomorrow. It would set an example to the others. It was hard enough to live his life, without his antecedents constantly browbeating him for the mess he'd made of it.

This was such a hard thing for him to do. Recognizing his failures as…well as an anything, wasn't something he'd ever been taught to do by his proud parents. But there was some shift, a subtle change was happening around Lucius and he couldn't quite locate where it came from, how long it had been coming on, or even what it was exactly. The world was changing. He suspected the mudblood had something to do with it, or perhaps her presence here was just calling his attention to it. Lucius, at the seasoned age of forty-four was suddenly realizing that there might be different ways of looking at the world. As he remembered his childhood, his overbearing father and his silly, indecisive mother, and even his time at Hogwarts, he could feel the verve of his indoctrination surrounding him. But, cutting sharply through, he kept thinking about those letters he'd exchanged with Dumbledore. He still had the replies that Dumbledore had sent – his counter-arguments.

As much as Lucius loved his study, his crystal Venetian vases and paperweights, the sterling silver Swedish clock and bookends, the late and Great Uncle Thuban's desk, the calfskin footstools, and the hand-woven Turkish rug, as much as he cherished his home and all of his gold, he would give it all up in a spellflash second, if he could only know that his wife and son would be always safe and healthy. At this point, happiness seemed like too much to hope for.

**{**}{**}{**}{**}{**}{**}{**}{**}{**}{**}{**}{**}**

A couple of days later found them in the nook. Dusk was settling in and since Jane hadn't slipped away for long, and an afternoon downpour had prevented an earlier outing, she wanted to know if they could go outside for a bit. The Malfoys hadn't many opportunities to spend their evenings in the courtyard since she'd come to live with them, though it was something they'd frequently enjoyed in the past. So they had readily agreed to accompany her.

It was a pleasant evening - the earlier shower lent the air a faint soupiness that felt refreshing rather than clammy. A sweet little nothing of a breeze was playing half-heartedly with Draco and Lucius's hair, coming in for a tease, then pulling back coyly. The sun had dipped below the soggy cloudburst, but had yet to marry the horizon, and it was making an exalted spectacle of itself, by throwing pink and soft purple shafts of watery light over the small fringe of narrow sky in which it receded.

Jane was playing with the white peacocks; or rather she was terrorizing herself while she harassed them. She'd named them, after Lucius had coolly explained to her that they were merely meant to be plumage, not pets. So the larger one was now Bert and the smaller was Ernie. Such prosaic names, but they, the Malfoys and the birds, couldn't have cared less what she called them.

Jane had taken some seed from a dispenser and she was making these ridiculous cooing and chirping noises while she threw it at them. With her hiccupy gait, she would slowly try to sidle up to the feeding, distracted birds with an outstretched hand as though to stroke them, but as soon as she was positioned too closely to the untamed things they would start squawking and beating their wings while they charged aggressively at her. Then Jane would shuffle off in a clumsy retreat, half yelping, half laughing, obviously frightened and thrilled by them, and then, when they'd gone back to pecking at the seeds she was scattering for them, she would start her exhilarating game all over. She was so undignified.

Draco was pretending to ignore Jane, but he was actually planning on throwing his glass of water on her the next time she came close enough to his chair. He'd been doing these petty little things to her all week.

The morning after he'd taken the Amorentia, his mother had found him lying on the floor outside of the spare room where Jane slept.

"Draco," she said softly, looking a bit scared that he might start yelling for his Jane at the top of his lungs again. "Why don't you go get in your bed for a while and take a lie-in?" she suggested, taking in his bloodshot eyes and sallow complexion.

Draco could still feel her presence pounding through him as sharply as the pain inside his head, but he'd also been able to feel himself, and so he'd quietly gone to his room, undressed to his pants and climbed into bed.

When he'd woken up again, right before noon, the obsession was completely over. But the humiliation was just beginning. And despite a weeks worth of cruel pranks - such as putting three spiders in her bed one night just before they locked her in the room, so that thirty minutes later she screamed so loud his mum and dad had gone rushing in to see who was trying to murder her – and mocking her mercilessly – like imitating her low-class accent and affecting her limp so accurately that his mum and dad had tears of unabashed mirth streaming down their faces, while Jane herself cried from anger and yelled that he was such a '_meanie_' – Draco had yet to get it all out his system - she needed to shed a lot more tears before he would - and he was plotting a lot of equally callous things to say and do to her over the next week.

If she'd just left him alone, he wouldn't have been so angry at her. But he was certain that she'd been quietly laughing up her sleeve at him the entire time, and she shouldn't have followed him around and asked him to play all of those games with her! Oh, he could see her now for the crafty little skunk that she was, and she had to pay.

The sound of distant male voices broke over the courtyard stones, echoed around the nook and then they began to grow louder.

The Malfoys all sat up in their seats, bristling at the unwelcome intrusion, and Jane, looking a bit confused and alarmed, went and sat at the table with them. Draco forgot to pour the water on her. He, like his parents, was nervous as five wizards rounded the corner of the conservatory and, calling out "Malfoys!" like they were the best of friends, headed toward the table where they were sitting.

The men were called Charles Quirke, Daniel Baddock, Malcolm Cauldwell, Thaddeus Banks, and Frederick Lipscombe. Each of them clutched a bottle of spirits in one hand and a broomstick in the other. They were underlings of the Dark Lord's, recruited more for numbers than skill, but with an elevated status due to their pure-blood lineage they were allowed to come and go as they pleased, unlike many of the Snatchers.

They were all dressed rather richly, or gaudily as the Malfoys thought, with plenty of thick gold chains and rings, flashing dully in the fading sun, and brightly colored, unfashionably cut robes made from expensive fabrics. It was all afforded to them, no doubt, by the spoils of war; serving the Dark Lord had plenty of perks, and many a poor little nobody was making a small fortune from their lazy work, with or without the skull and snake insignia. Pure-bloods got the largest portion of the pickings, but there was plenty to go around, and most of the Snatchers that came to the manor were attired in similar flashy decadence.

They seemed steady on their feet as they casually sauntered into the nook, pulled up or conjured chairs, and joined the Malfoys at the table.

Lucius was looking angry, with a tincture of fear puckering his brow, though he was trying to disguise both of these emotions.

Malfoy blood was magically anchored to the very stones the house was built with and it was an old branch of magic commonly known as Homespells. It was as tight and as complex as the magic used to create the Fidelius Charm and for the past three centuries there had been a strenuous dome of wards and enchantments kept regularly invoked around the entire manor to keep out unwelcome persons. However, since his family home had become the Dark Lord's headquarters these numerous spells had to be modified and relaxed, so that it was easier for a variety of wizards and witches, with dubious intentions and ambiguous heredities, to come and go in the course of their work for the pureblood cause.

It wasn't uncommon for these types of people to wander around his manor and the surrounding grounds. Sinecurists of this sort came and went daily, reporting on assignments they'd completed and gathering new ones. These jobs mostly consisted of patrolling Diagon Alley, the Ministry, St. Mungo's, and sometimes they were sent to the homes of various citizens to issue warnings and threats, and dole out punishments to those who were repeat offenders. They comprised a sort of ragtag police, and they were drunk on the power they wielded, and thoroughly corrupt. They lazed around the lowest floor of the manor waiting for new assignments to come in, drinking Lucius's alcohol, helping themselves to the contents of his kitchen and larders, and often taking up a spare room for a night, or more, and Lucius sorely wanted them to leave. Or at the very least pay him room and board. But they didn't.

Draco used to think that the young men who were his Slytherin housemates had used some nasty language when they talked about women and sex, but it was actually cleaner than Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, when contrasted with some of the things he'd heard the Dark Lord's servants saying around the manor. Draco had overheard groups of these men and their snatcher counterparts bragging about how many muggles they'd robbed, raped, tortured, and killed. He was sickened by the things they'd done, the bald language they used to describe it, and also of how proud they seemed to be of the horrendous acts they had committed. Draco knew that as practitioners of magic, and as the supreme race of wizardkind, they were meant to rule the muggles, but as he was beginning to grasp what many of the Dark Lord's minions defined as 'dominate', he was starting to realize that he wanted no part in it.

Before he'd bother to greet them, Lucius said, "We were just going inside," and he made to rise. That was a mistake and as soon as he said it he seemed to realize it.

The convivial smiles of the young men chilled. Their eyelids lowered malignantly and one of them, Charles, clapped one of his luridly bedecked hands over Lucius's shoulder and pulled him roughly down. "Now then, Lucius-" he began.

Malcolm, who was only nineteen and the youngest of the group, started laughing hard, already amused by what he could sense in the near future. Charles and Daniel, the leaders of the pack, looked at Malcolm and started laughing too. Then Thaddeus and Frederick, as though they'd been given permission, laughed as well.

It was stupid. They were stupid, and drunk and mad at the Malfoys for everything that they had been born with, and they were dangerous. Should all three of the Malfoys have been armed the boisterous thugs wouldn't have been so pernicious, but as it thus stood, they posed quite the threat.

Narcissa looked at the bottles they were holding, realized they came from their own private stores, and tried to assess how intoxicated they actually were; and she longed to retrieve her wand, but worried that doing so would precipitate an escalation that could otherwise be avoided.

"Now then, Lucius, my friend," Charles began again, an anaconda grin playing around his mouth. "'Ow's it goin' without the wand my friend?"

Malcolm, who it seemed was the mindless hanger-on of the group, laughed gratingly after everything that was said, often pulling one of his own heavily bejeweled hands up to cover his mouth as he did so. Draco thought he was perhaps doing it in an attempt to show off the extravagant rings on his hand, but his doing so made him seem like a skittish, ten-year-old girl.

Lucius wasn't really sure how to handle the situation. If he had a wand he would put the hoodlums in their places posthaste; but then, if he had enough status to have a wand, he would never have been in this impossible situation from the beginning. Up until his capture and imprisonment Lucius had moved through life with all the conveniences of a pampered aristocrat, for if his name and blood-status couldn't cut through any bother or trouble, then his bloated vault at Gringotts could always be relied on to clear the way. Dealing with anything without the handy assistance of these lifelong tools was beyond him.

He knew he hadn't begun right. He should have sat a moment with them and pretended to shoot the breeze or something - and then made an offhand remark about it being Jane's bedtime. But how could he? They weren't important enough to be counted with the other Death Eaters, they were dressed like vulgar buffoons, and despite their supposed lineage they weren't even close to the elite society with whom he was accustomed to conversing. Sitting around with these morons to drink or be merry would feel exactly like inviting Martha to sit down and take tea with them. All of his propensities were revolting at the very idea. But he should have done it anyway, for the sake of self-preservation.

"Yeah," Daniel mimicked Charles. "'Ow you doin' without yer wand?"

"Very well," he said quietly, glancing at Narcissa's eyes and then the sleeve of her gown, where he knew her wand rested. He plastered a ceramic smile on his face and continued, "So kind of you to inquire. How's the vintage port? Is that the '56?"

Charles held his bottle up and examined it. Then he flung his arm around Lucius and said, "Nope. The '42."

Malcolm draped an arm over the back of Draco's chair and then Daniel placed his around Narcissa's. All three of the Malfoys pinkened at this last one, and Lucius went rigid as the last lout, Daniel, put his filthy arm around his wife. Draco sorely wished to say something, but he knew he should follow his father's lead.

At this awkward moment, Jane decided to get up and go to watch the fish in the fountain.

The five ruffians watched her departure from the table. Lucius couldn't help notice that both Malcolm and Frederick looked after her rather wistfully, the latter actually licking his lips with a bit of longing.

Charles readjusted his eyes on Lucius. "'Ow's takin' care of that freaky little bitch? We 'ear she don't like the baths."

They broke into another chorus of chimpanzee laughter. Lucius affected his own milder version of their laughter and so did Draco and Narcissa, but it sounded forced to their own ears and probably did to the others as well. Applying the word 'bitch' to _any_ female was lower than low in Lucius's opinion. The closest he'd ever come to doing so would have been for Bella, but he hadn't. These cretins using the word on the mudblood was crass, but Lucius found himself more upset by them using such foul language in his wife's presence.

Once the monkey noises had subsided, Lucius said, "Yes, she is quite the little beast."

Daniel wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and said, "Yeah, must be 'ard to 'ave 'er stinkin' up yer big pretty 'ouse, Malfoy."

Malcolm, like a broken record, clapped his fat gorilla hand over his mouth in another girlish gesture, and tittered harshly again.

"Yes, it is," Lucius woodenly agreed again.

"It true she like to fart at the dinner table?" Charles asked, a wicked smirk shining out of his glassy, drunken eyes.

It was horrible enough to keep the slippery fish in their home, but to know that it was talked of and most definitely joked about by others was especially odious to the Malfoys. Lucius was trying to keep hold of his anger, to allow a lessening of enmity before he made their excuses to leave.

"We 'ear you's gotta do all kinds of lil' experiments on 'er," Daniel said. "That true, too?"

"Yes. She's definitely the abominable little freak," Lucius told him. Getting an idea to encourage the lackeys to forget about his earlier _faux pas _ he said, "She's proven immune to everything we've tried on her, in fact. The Dark Lord has ordered us to feed her countless, deadly poisons. Nothing works. You're more than welcome to try some curses on her if you'd like, to see for yourselves."

"That righ'?" Thaddeus asked, and looked to Charles to see how he would react.

"It's true," Narcissa said, giving her husband a casually loaded look before she turned to Charles and continued. "Even the Cruciatus Curse has no effect on her."

Charles actually looked a bit interested by this suggestion, "Any one ever tried the Killing Curse on 'er?"

Narcissa and Lucius were a bit alarmed by this question and Lucius rapidly told them, "No, no! The Dark Lord, to my knowledge, hasn't cast that particular curse on her, and I'll ask you not to either. He would be most displeased by that I believe, and would surely punish any who did so without his express permission." Lucius was trying to draw their animosity off of the Malfoys and onto the little girl, but now he was worried he might digging his own grave. "I simply meant you could try casting some hexes and jinxes at her if you'd like. Most of our acquaintances like to see it for themselves, you see, as it's so odd for anyone to be immune to magic."

"Narcissa," Lucius, said with a simulacrum of an easy smile, "May I see your wand, love? I'll give them a small demonstration."

Narcissa hurriedly pulled out her wand and handed it to him, relieved that if came to protecting themselves the burden would fall on her husband instead of herself.

Since Jane was at least ten feet away from the table where they sat, Lucius had to take careful aim as he cast a few spells at her. Knowing it would be more impressive if the men knew which jinxes he was using, Lucius spoke the incantations aloud instead of doing it nonverbally as he would have done any other time. Jane was distracted by the magic pouring into her and looked over to them.

Draco gave her a casual wave and a fake smile and all eight of them laughed, united against the frowsy muggle.

His plan was working. The inebriated thugs were starting to focus their sloppy gazes at Jane, and Lucius was just beginning to relax and congratulate himself on his cleverness, when Draco, inadvertently, went and ruined it all.

Lucius knew it was an accident. Draco simply thought they might be interested in knowing about it, but it was badly taken when he told them, "The Dark Lord even brought Orb of Thanatos for her to touch, one day,"

They clearly didn't know what an Orb of Thanatos was, ignorant gits that they were. They didn't appreciate the boy saying that, as they thought he was trying to make them feel stupid.

If the Malfoys had a proper status, had wands even, then one of them, Charles probably, would have feigned an interest in what Draco had said and been open to receiving an education. But this, combined with the earlier rebuff, convinced them that the Malfoys were still putting on misplaced airs because of their wealth. When were the Malfoys going to stop acting like the bleeding snobs that they were? How low did they have to go to come around to the realization that they weren't better than everybody else?

"That so?" Charles asked his eyes regaining an insidious gleam. "She touched one of 'em, eh?"

"Tell us somethin', Draco," Frederick chimed in, "she ever touched one of yer orbs?"

Draco's eyes rounded out with shock and horror. Did they know about the love potion?

Daniel, Frederick, and Malcolm burst into the rowdiest laughter yet. But Charles was quietly taking in the communicative expression on Draco's face.

"Now, now," Lucius said, his face the vibrant color of a tomato, "there's no need for such crude language in my wife's presence."

The Malfoys were rapidly losing their semblance of nonchalance.

The undemanding position that these ruffians had been enjoying combined with the nature of the work they did for their master, had spoiled them. These men may have begun with a little decency when they enlisted to straighten out the pecking order of the wizarding world, drawn in by the power and the uncomplicated accumulation of wealth, but they were now rotten to the core.

"We should be getting Jane to bed soon," Lucius cut in, over the rank sounds of their polluted laughter.

"You like puttin 'er to bed, Lucius?" asked Malcolm, causing an increase in their noisy glee.

"That's just about enough," he said loudly as he stood, unable to ignore such disgusting allusions.

"Come along Cissa, Draco," he commanded.

His wife and son rose from their chairs.

Charles quickly pulled his wand out of his robe and cast a hex at Lucius.

Lucius wasn't as prepared for it as he should have been, distracted as he was by his fury at their nasty insinuations, but he still managed to deflect it with his own Protego spell.

He managed to disarm Malcolm and Frederick, while Draco was trying to wrest Daniel's wand away from him. But when he turned to take on Charles, Lucius saw that he had immobilized Narcissa, was standing behind her, using her as a shield, and he had his wand to her throat.

"Drop it," Charles commanded.

Behind him Lucius heard a deep voice, probably belonging to Thaddeus, shout, "Legrancum!" and then he heard Draco moan in pain and the distinct sound of a body hitting the paved stones.

Daniel laughed, and then said, "You bloody git! Took ya long 'nuff to get 'im off me!"

Lucius had never felt so helpless in his life as he saw his wife's face; the spell had captured her countenance, and she had her lip curled in disgust. She didn't look scared, simply contemptuous.

Lucius heard another incantation and he lost consciousness.

Narcissa couldn't turn her head to her son or her husband, couldn't discover their injuries or fates in this nightmare falling over her family. They were handicapped without wands. She had always known it. But this moment was crashing it into her painfully and inclemently. Martha had gone home, Bella, even were she to appear, had no wand, Jane was as stupid and useless as the peacocks, and any other Death Eater who might come across this scene would be just as likely to join in with the torment as they would to offer them help, depending on how the mood struck them. Except Severus, but he was at Hogwarts now and usually only came for the Sunday meetings. They hadn't seen him in weeks. They were alone and helpless. _Morgana help us_! Narcissa sent a small prayer to a benefactress she normally lent little heed to.

Charles and his lackeys were angry at the Malfoys, but at the same time delighted with the outcome of the brief skirmish. It was all over now. The Malfoys were subdued and at their mercy. Of which they had none.

Charles stepped out from behind the blond bitch, walked over to her blond bastard of a husband, and embedded a vicious kick into Lucius's stomach. He revived enough to moan. Then the young man leaned down and spit on his face.

"You still think your shit don' stink, don' ya Lucius?" he whispered querulously.

"Wha'dya reckon we oughtta do with 'em?" Daniel asked joyfully, and then took a long drink from his bottle.

"Oi," Malcolm drew his companions' attention softly. They turned and looked at him. "This ain' a good idea," he said nervously looking at them, two on the ground and Mrs. Malfoy still standing like a white marble statue.

She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. He didn't mind hurting muggles, he liked raping the little ones. But Mrs. Malfoy was nothing like those scared, mindless animals that he enjoyed making cry. She was everything he'd been taught to believe was above him, out of his reach, and her face, frozen in disdain, just seemed to be confirming this belief.

Charles and Daniel might get ideas about bringing her down, but Malcolm didn't want to participate in that. He _liked_ women like her being so calm and ethereal. She was like an angel to him and he didn't want to tear off her wings, see her sobbing and begging; he could feel uncertainty setting into his mind, holding him back this time.

"Blimey, Mal! Wochu' talkin' bout?" Charles asked, his voice sounding a touch peevish.

"They's Death Eaters," Malcolm said urgently. "We ain'. The Dark Lord migh' not like us makin' sport of 'em. They ain' exactly the muggle rubbish we usually play round with."

"Who cares!" Daniel shouted furiously. He didn't want to hear these sensible thoughts. He was getting too warmed up with the thought of teaching the Malfoys the lesson they so clearly needed. "They's nobodies now! They don' even get invited to the meetings anymore, what I 'ear."

"Yeah," Charles seconded. "They're so low they's takin care of muggle filth!"

"Let's go," he urged them. "We got some good plans fer tonight. Let's just go and find some muggles to get it on with." Apparently Malcolm, who at first seemed like the dumbest of the lot, had a lot more common sense than his mates. "What if Lestrange gets another wand? I don' want ter be on 'er dark side. They say she's barmy."

"Then just go, you tetchy lil' rat. It ain' like we can't 'rase their memries after we's done," Charles said harshly.

"Ya know that spell, do ya?" he asked dubiously.

"Course I knows it," Charles told him calmly.

"I'm goin'," he told them. He wasn't as confident in the leader's skills as Charles seemed to be.

From the corner of her eye Narcissa saw Malcolm pick up a broom from the ground, mount it, and take off.

"I can' believe Mal's missin out on the fun," Daniel said as he watched his colleague fly away. Now his voice was thick with doubt.

"Don' be getting' no ideas of followin' now, Danny! Ya 'ear?" Charles told him, his demand somersaulting to an entreaty.

_Please let him leave_, Narcissa thought. _Just let them all leave_.

All was silent for a moment.

"Righ' then," Charles said. "You lot get 'em up."

Suddenly Lucius was brought into the side of her wobbly vision as Frederick and Daniel hoisted him into a seat. She could see blurry, undulating lines moving around Lucius as Daniel put ropes around his arms and upper body. Then she heard them hauling Draco into the seat beside her husband.

It was an indescribable agony to hear everything, to see pieces, and have no power to stop what was happening to them, or to even move her body.

Once Draco and Lucius were positioned and bound, Daniel and Charles cast counter spells at them so they would revive and be aware of what was happening.

"Release us this instant or I'll kill you," she heard her husband say in a breathy, panting voice that wasn't as cold and hard as it would have been if he wasn't in so much pain.

The remaining four burst into shameless laughter.

"Pipe down now Lucius," Daniel said. "It'll all be over quick 'nuff."

"Or not," Thaddeus added.

They just kept laughing and laughing. Narcissa didn't think she could stand much more of it.

When Charles came to her, put his arm around her, she thought she would be sick. She could actually feel hot, acrid bile rising and burning the back of her throat, but she was unable to swallow it down. Her eyes were watering as well, as she had no control of any of her faculties and couldn't even perform a simple blink to moisten them.

Charles ran his finger down her cheek, sliding it through the damp streak, glistening in the dusky light.

"Look at 'er," he said softly. "She were bout to get hexed and all she felt were scorn for us."

Daniel laughed again. He was the best looking of the rough bunch, with piercing blue eyes, long shining black hair, and a straight nose and square jaw. Even though he was almost thirty, three years older than Charles, he was only the second-in-command of their motley gang.

Charles had a forceful, charismatic personality, and he was clever. He always had good ideas for getting better jobs, bigger pay-offs, and his silver-tongue could snake his way out of just about any sticky situation. So, for now, Freddy, Mal, Danny, and Tad all looked to him to negotiate them through the murky waters of life in the Dark Lord's service and he'd steered them safely thus far. Of course, loyalties were in never-ending flux as the tides and undertows of power were constantly shifting, so the second he took a misstep, he could be sure one of his followers would get him in the back. There was no honor among thieves.

Charles wasn't in any hurry, and to demonstrate his comfort he brought the bottle of port to his mouth and took a few long swigs.

He put his wand to Narcissa's head, leaned in closer to her ear, and whispered a spell.

Cissa could feel her whole head and neck relaxing, though everything from the neck down remained immovable. She started to blink and swallow. Her intractable chest felt so tight she was having a hard time drawing enough breath and she felt so dizzy she thought she would pass out.

"Release me now pig, or me and mine will spend the rest of our lives making yours unlivable."

"Shut your mouth, you cheeky lil' bitch!" Charles ground out roughly through his teeth. And then, soft again, "You think your better than me, don' ya?"

"You're not fit to lick my boots, scum," Narcissa told him calmly, coldly, boring her icy eyes into him. He was chilled by her glacial composure. He was used to panicky muggle animals, and had never had the courage to assault a genuine lady before now - he'd always wanted to fuck Narcissa.

With his arm still around her, Charles forced his bottle roughly into her mouth, bruising her lips and banging the glass against her teeth as he did so. Once he had the bottle firmly in her mouth he tilted it forcefully up, causing some of the fiery spirits to spill into her.

Narcissa tried to swallow it so she wouldn't end up choking, but she was so angry and disconcerted a small portion of it slipped into her windpipe and she began to splutter and cough.

"Let my mother go, you barbarians! I'll kill you if you touch her!" Draco called from his seat as he tried to struggle out of his bindings.

Lucius, who was having his own trouble staying conscious, said weakly, "You'll be sorry for this."

Charles used his wand to give both the man and his boy some magical pain. Draco and Lucius moaned.

"Shut it! All three of you's just shut it!" Charles was enraged. "That's wha' I can' stand 'bout you lot, you arrogant bastards! You just never know when to say sorry. You walk round all the time with your noses in the air and it disgusts me. Well, guess what? All your money and your big 'ouse and your fancy clothes and big jewelry closets, ain' gonna save you now.

"Now then," and he turned back to Narcissa, "I wanna know what color your knickers are."

"Go to Hades," she told him. Her heart started pumping faster with a fear she tried not to show.

Lucius thought he might cry. He _couldn't_ cry; he was a Malfoy. But if he had to watch these men treat his wife like some sort of slattern he would die. Lucius was wavering between rage and a deep shame and grief. He couldn't even protect his family anymore.

"I bet they're lacy, Chuck," Frederick said. "Blimey, is that a Firebolt?" he asked, catching sight of Draco's broom. He weaved a serpentine path to the broomstick leaning against the wall and picked it up. Freddy was a total pedophile – boys or girls, either would do for him – and Narcissa's knickers held very little interest to him, as he knew there'd be hair beneath them.

"Merlin's nuts, Freddy," Thaddeus called loudly, "you have dung for brains! Come 'ere and let's see what her knickers look like. I bet they's got some silky ribbons on 'em."

Thaddeus, Frederick, and Daniel started making bets on what sort of undergarments she was wearing while Charles, his hazel eyes glued to his prey, began using his wand to slowly raise the costly fabrics of her silk gown and satin shift. He was trying to gage how far he'd have to lift them before her stolid demeanor avalanched.

Narcissa was managing to keep up her pretense of cool indifference. Until she felt the benign, teasing breeze caressing her bare knees.

That was it. She was breaking, and her face crumpled. "Lucius," she sobbed.

"Oi!" Cissa heard Jane call.

The next thing everybody knew the little brat was in the center of the group.

"That's nuff, now," Jane said calmly. "You's gotta be'ed go now."

Charles was so taken aback by the little urchin's tranquil order that he just gaped at her with his mouth hanging open like a codfish.

"Scuse me?" he asked, regaining his momentum. "Did you just _speak_ to me?"

The sun was halfway sunk beneath the horizon and magical torches that were placed around the courtyard and trained to ignite themselves should any people be present were now lit up, and the flickering flames were swaying and rocking over Jane's glasses and the metal over her teeth.

"You's gotta bein goed now," she repeated.

Charles led the men in a round of hearty laughter. He dropped his wand from Narcissa skirts and they fell down to where they belonged, at her ankles once more. For all her relief, Narcissa didn't know what would happen. She was glad that Jane was distracting them, and she was scared that the men, drunk on liquor and power, might hurt her – Frederick's dissolute eyes fixed on Jane weren't lost on Narcissa, even in her state of distress – and she couldn't see how any of this might have a satisfactory outcome. If they decided to attack Jane, the Dark Lord would probably kill everybody present, incapacitated or otherwise.

"I don' think you understand what's goin' on 'ere, mudblood," Charles told her, a mad little glint in his eyes. He walked closer to the little girl, leaned down a little and softly explained, "See, we've got the wands and the power 'ere, see. We're bigger 'an you, we're smarter 'an you, an' I don' 'preciate ya tryin' to tell me what I gotta do."

He gently but firmly pushed on her shoulder, and Jane was forced to take a step or two back.

"If you hurt her, the Dark Lord will kill us all," Narcissa cautioned him.

And then, quite mysteriously, Jane, in a soft, almost sing-song voice crooned, "Is baffy-waffy time Chuppywuppykin."

Lucius saw Charles eyes widen in terror and disbelief as he quickly moved away from Jane as though he'd been burned by her words.

"What did you jus' say?" he asked.

Jane didn't repeat it. Instead she said, "You's be 'earin me, Chuck. Now get on your brooms and fly 'way. Or I's tellin' everyone wha' it meaned."

Charles still looked shocked but then he made a raw sound and took a step toward her. He pulled back his hand as though to strike her. Thankfully he didn't. He seemed too disoriented and too distraught.

Daniel came toward them at this point and asked, "'Ey, wha' she goin' on bout?"

Danny leaned down into Jane's face now and asked, "What you talkin' 'bout you uppity lil' cripple?"

And then, just as inexplicably, Jane looked at Daniel and opened her mouth and started talking to him in what sounded like a lilting foreign language. Lucius didn't know what language it was, but it had a distinctly Oriental rhythm to it.

Danny also looked horrified by this cryptic outburst. He took some steps away from Jane as though she'd just grown ten inch fangs, and sprouted a gruesome pair of scaly wings.

"All of you's better goed now, or I's be spillin' your secrets to each uvver," Jane said calmly.

Charles leaned down once more, and with a face permeating hatred he growled, "You's better watch yer back, bitch!"

And then he went and retrieved his broom from where it was leaning against a chair.

"Wha's goin' on?" Thaddeus asked.

"We're leavin', Tad, Freddy, Danny!" Charles barked.

"Why?" Thaddeus whined. "Is just gettin' good."

"Now!" Charles yelled. He soared up about ten feet and then turned around and watched the rest of them. He had to make sure they would follow him. "Now!" he shouted again. He looked mental.

Tad got onto his broom, Freddy climbed onto Draco's brand new Firebolt and they both took off into the night.

Daniel was still standing looking at Jane. He didn't seem scared or angry anymore, simply numb. Without speaking he took up his broom, cast a last blank look at the mudblood, and he turned away from the nook, and ascended the cool twilit air.

Once everyone else had departed, Charles followed.

Jane hobbled over to Mrs. Malfoy's wand, picked it up and tried to put it in her hand.

"No Poisson, you daft darky!" Narcissa chided her. "Can't you see that I can't hold it? Give it to Lucius or Draco!"

Without a word, Jane did as she was instructed.

Though he did try, Lucius was too damaged to keep hold of it and he promptly dropped it. So Jane picked it up once more and put it into Draco's hand. Draco, though he wasn't as bad off as his dad, still had a hard time maneuvering it properly, especially as his arms were tied tightly to the chair. He dropped it after a few tries, Jane retrieved it for him again, and finally, just when they all thought Jane might have to leave them there and go track down Bellatrix, Draco managed to unfreeze his mum.

Narcissa was shaking uncontrollably, but after some slovenly wrist movements she finally freed her husband and son from their ropes.

When Lucius stood up, he was racked with such a harsh fit of coughing that he brought up some blood.

"Oh Medea! What have they done to you?" Narcissa cried.

Draco, weak and trembling, Jane, small and lame, and Narcissa, shaken and ashamed, all managed to get Lucius upstairs and in his bed. Then Draco collapsed and Cissa and Jane had to help him into the bed as well, to lie beside his father.

Around ten Bella came looking for them.

"What's happened?" she cried from the doorway, as she took in her brother-in-law and nephew on the bed side by side, while Jane was wiping Lucius's forehead with a damp cloth and Narcissa sat at the breakfast table fiercely grinding some seeds with a mortar and pestle.

"We were attacked," Narcissa told her succinctly as she distractedly pushed some displaced hair away from her sweaty forehead and went back to the arduous task of grinding.

"What! By whom?"

"Doesn't matter. They're long gone," Narcissa huffed. She was a mess. Her make-up was smudged around her eyes, her hair was rumpled, and in her haste to administer some potions, she'd spilled something orange all over her pink gown. For once she didn't care how she looked.

"Of course it matters, Cissa! Tell me what happened!" she demanded.

Narcissa pithily related what had happened at the nook.

"What did Poisson say to them?"

"I don't know, Bella! It sounded like rubbish, but it scared them."

Bellatrix, who'd come into the room by this point, strode closer to Jane and asked, "What did you say to them?"

Jane wrung warm, herb-laced water from the compress she was holding, and put it back over Mr. Malfoy's sweaty forehead. She shrugged.

Bellatrix went up behind her, grabbed her, and spun her around.

"What did you say to make them leave?" she asked, her eyes wild with anger.

Jane gave her a blank look and shrugged again.

Bella raised her hand to slap the waif, but she felt a stab of hot pain run down her shoulder and arm.

Bellatrix looked up and saw Cissa's wand trained on her.

"Just leave her be, Bellatrix! Help me!" Cissa cried.

"Why didn't she say something sooner?! If she had the power to make them stop, then why didn't she interfere as soon as it began?!" Bella wanted to know.

"Because she hates us," Cissa imparted softly, darting hate-filled eyes at the child.

"Give me your wand, Cissa. I'm going to find them and kill them!"

"No! It's over for now! I-I need…help!" she panted.

Narcissa had taken three years of training for a healer after she'd completed her N.E.W.T.s. But her parents had instructed her drop her studies once she was engaged. She new a great deal more about healing than the average witch, but she wasn't certain she knew enough to help her husband. Draco was better, he was resting now, but Lucius was still in bad shape. She might send for a healer, but who could say if any would come to the home where the Dark Lord held court? If it came down to it, she would take him to St. Mungo's, with or without their master's permission. But she didn't want the Dark Lord, or anyone, to know what had happened to them. To her.

"Narcissa, those scum have to pay for what they did to you," Bella told her roughly. Bella was panting with her fury, and her voice was like gravel.

"Yes, and they will. But Lucius will want to help, and I need to heal him first. Please, go to the Brewery and get the Fuscillitia. It's in a purple bottle on the black shelf, between the windows."

"Lucius couldn't even protect you, Narcissa. He's worthless," Bella said, her tone doused with derision. "Let him die! He just sat there while that cockroach practically _raped_ you!"

Bellatrix felt a cut of pain across her face. She raised her hand to her cheek.

"Get out! Get out, now!" Narcissa shouted. "And don't you dare tell anybody what happened, or you'll get worse than that!"

Bellatrix turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

Narcissa sat down at the table and started to cry.

"Mrs. Malfoy," she heard Jane say softly.

"What do you want?" Narcissa asked her harshly.

"I's get the purple bottle for you," Jane offered.

"Fine then, Poisson. If you can find it, then go and get it for me. Just leave my sight," Narcissa told her.

Narcissa kept Jane fetching and carrying until three in the morning. Jane was as pliable and as meek as a kitten. Without complaint, or emotion, she labored under Narcissa's rude instructions until she finally fell asleep propped up in a chair in the corner.

Around dawn, Narcissa sat down and breathed a sigh of relief. Lucius was healed.


	17. A Bedtime Story

**A/N: I wrote the first scene of this chapter with one of my reviewers in mind: LizzieLovesEsmeCarlisleCulle n. (Thanks for reviewing my story sweetie!) I also hope that NimbusCentuar enjoys it as well! ;)**

**A Bedtime Story**

**September 23****rd****, 1998**

"You need to have a talk with Draco."

Narcissa was in her husband's lap. She'd straddled him, her legs dangling down from either side of him in the ivory-colored chair with burnished silver trim that matched her vanity. She was using her wand to reshape his eyebrows. This was something she'd wanted to do ever since he came back from prison.

"A talk about what?"

Lucius was being a lamb. Ever since the misfortune in the nook he'd been deferring to her every whim. She'd given him two facials, a manicure, and she'd even gotten him to let her give him a pedicure. Before Azkaban, she'd administered these sorts of pampering applications on a weekly basis, without fail, but since he'd been returned to her, his interest in his appearance had taken such deplorable dip. He'd simply mutter something about there being no point and then run off to his study or to find a stiff drink. But now, he was so drenched with guilt that he would probably let her paint his toenails pink if she asked.

"I saw him looking at Agnes yesterday."

Severus had invited himself over for supper with them this evening, and Narcissa was determined that they should all look their best for their master's right-hand man, even if he was just a half-blood. She still wasn't sure whether or not Bellatrix would be joining them, as she had only sidled and balked every time Narcissa tried to pin her down. So the seating arrangement was now contingent, and it was irritating, for she wanted everything to be perfect. Of course, it couldn't be ideal, no matter how well-groomed they were or how appealingly the table was laid out, for Jane would be dining with them as well. And consequently they weren't supping until almost nine, or later, depending on how long Jane was working.

Narcissa had told Severus that supper at six would be ideal, for then Jane would be in the spare room, trying to slip away, but Severus said specifically that he'd like her to be present. Narcissa wouldn't examine too closely any of his potential motives for this odd petition. He was probably just curious about the ghastly thing, and he might even want to try casting some spells at her…or something. After all, Snape was a pedagogically-minded man. And it was remarkable how thoroughly Narcissa was ignoring certain facts about Severus Snape. Who was a man who had never been known to talk about women, let alone look at them. He probably preferred the company of men, though no evidence to support this suspicion had ever been latched-on to by the most tenacious, raging gossips. But even if his interest in that small, dark-skinned freak went to a much murkier place than a purely academic one, she didn't care. If the Dark Lord gave his permission, Severus was more than welcome to take Jane to a back bedroom and have his way with her all night long, and Narcissa wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over it. After the debacle in the nook, when she considered that Jane had seen them all so abject, had stayed to the side, then swooped in at the last minute to _save_ them, she no longer felt any inclination to concern herself over Jane's fate.

"I don't think looking at someone should signify a talking to."

Narcissa tilted her head slightly to the side and fastened her baby-blues on him, silently expressing everything that she was thinking.

Lucius sighed and then feigned astonishment. "Really?"

"I know. I was quite surprised, myself. She's such a dense, homely thing." Narcissa sighed, thinking that she would never understand the male psyche. "She's so cock-eyed, I'm never sure when's she looking at me, or the person standing two feet to the side of me."

They both laughed at this unkind little speech.

"Well, she isn't pretty, it's true," Lucius said out loud. What he was thinking was that Agnes had a good figure and he'd seen Draco noticing it more than once. However, he was surprised that his cautious son hadn't taken greater pains to conceal his only-natural interest in it from his mother.

"I'm not saying I'm worried he'll start courting her, of course."

"Of course."

"But you should talk to him just the same."

"Should I tell him that it bothers you when he looks at her?" Lucius wanted to know, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

She wasn't amused. "Lucius."

She reached out and took up a blue bottle of moisturizer from the top of her dressing table, delicately shook some into her hand and began massaging little dabs of it into his papery skin.

If her husband's incarceration had aged Narcissa, it was nothing compared to what Azkaban had wreaked on him. He'd come home cocooned in a layer of pancake-thick grime and reeking of decay, sunken-chested and juiceless, with bleeding, malnourished gums, rotting teeth, lank, crispy hair, wrinkled, stringy hands, and gaunt, haunted eyes. For the first week all he had done was sleep and eat; he took his meals off a tray in the bed, and Narcissa wanted to weep when she had to watch him shambling like a hunched, wispy old man just to make it into the bath or to the toilet. She'd spoon-fed and bathed him like a child. She had rubbed healing oils into his sore-ridden feet and back, applied restoring polishes to his teeth, and forced him to chew bitter medicinal herbs to firm his soggy, putrid gums. Narcissa had only experienced the effects of propinquity to a Dementor once, and very briefly, but when Lucius came home she couldn't imagine anything so inhumane as not having access to a bath and a toothbrush for an entire year. Narcissa had cleansed and exfoliated him, moisturized and polished him back to health. But all of her tender nursing couldn't reinstate what they'd truly lost from his abbreviated sentence in wizard's prison, their dignity and peace of mind.

The most ironic thing about their predicament was that it had all just been a private joke to them before. The Malfoy reputation. They glided through everything - charity luncheons and fund-raising suppers, ministry-related galas and pure-bloods-only balls, teas, and card parties - with a sneering indifference for the rich idiots with whom they had surrounded themselves. They'd had all the right friends, in all the right places; they'd said all the proper things to everybody who mattered. And, once home, they tore them to verbal shreds with vicious glee. They had worried and fretted about taking Jane to Diagon Alley, come up with silly, unlikely stories about her, and it had been for naught. _Nobody_ had asked them about her; nobody had asked them anything. They'd both realized that the few people who had bothered speaking to them at all, had done so out of fear and a stout sense of self-preservation, not a sincere desire to inquire after their well-being. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, the fashion pinnacles of their coterie, sashaying through the peak echelons of society, whom everyone turned to take affably, admirably in, when they chose to grace them all with their presence. Narcissa the epitome of beauty, taste, and pampered grace, and Lucius, the formidable husband who was a handsome force to be reckoned with. They'd considered their respectability to be a birthright, exactly like the fair skin they'd been born in, but it wasn't. Lucius and Narcissa only understood how brittle it was, had always been, now that it was broken.

Perhaps they wouldn't have felt it so acutely if they weren't in the doldrums with the Dark Lord. But they knew now that, even with his grace, it would never be the same as what they'd taken for granted during their golden age. He was a merciless devil who considered everyone his house-elves, especially the Malfoys. Narcissa's eye for textures and color-coordination, Lucius's preternatural ability to almost magically turn knuts into galleons, none of that mattered to the master. All you needed to please him were a drop or more of pure blood, no compunctions about extinguishing life, a boot-licking nature and an enthusiasm for genuflection, and plenty of luck.

Though they didn't say it, didn't have to, both Lucius and Narcissa longed for their old life.

Now, in his lap, she was inexpressibly pleased to know that he was at last letting her get on with the thankless task of re-beautifying him. Lucius rested his long hands lightly on her hips.

"How do so many men come to be so adroit at overlooking the vital reasons which would prevent a woman from sleeping with a man?"

Lucius laughed uncomfortably. "What do you mean?" he dissimulated.

"Don't pretend you don't understand what I'm talking about," she said, narrowing her eyes at him a bit. "It baffles me the way some men seem quite capable of putting their male parts into almost anything that has a pulse and the correct anatomy. Or sometimes even the last bit's negotiable," she said in a voice saturated with disgust and bemusement.

Lucius was shocked. Not so much about her knowledge but at her barefaced expression of it. She continued, "Even _Poisson _has managed to attract a few licentious looks.

"How?" she insisted.

Lucius wriggled in his seat a bit, and darted a dark look at the wall. He had a pretty good idea what had instigated this conversation. It wasn't just what had happened in the nook, or even her glimpse of their son lusting after the troll-brained, comely-shaped Agnes.

Since the Dark Lord's irrefutable reign had taken root in their home, the Malfoys had been subjected to some…disturbing facts about a shockingly large number of his followers. Lucius had seen some of this in the last war, but now, with Dumbledore out of the way at last, it all seemed to be coming to a head. Things were being circulated, unearthed, and now men who had always indulged their proclivities under darkest cloaks of secrecy, were stripping away their shackles of shame. And although they might have to endure some inevitable, sneering taunts, hardly anybody had enough power, or even pure enough tastes of their own, to make judgments. And the truth was nobody really gave a damn.

Was it wrong to have sex with a muggle? Lucius thought so. To him it would be the equivalent of taking himself out to a pasture and finding a ewe to get off with. Since they were basically animals, then could taking a muggle without its consent be classified as rape, technically? If it wasn't rape, then did it make a difference if it was a male or female? Venison or veal? These types of high-minded, ethical questions could be asked by philosophers; if they felt like wasting their time on it, and were prudent enough to refrain from loudly proclaiming or publishing any opinions which clashed with the Dark Lord's and his Death Eaters'. Lucius didn't have any desire to try to answer them. Why would he bother? It was all happening with or without his approval. So there was no point in worrying about whether muggles were human enough to be given the sort of basic rights that would make forcing them to have sex against their will to be categorized as rape. Besides, Lucius had better things to expend his thoughts and energy on.

These days, that was mainly revenge.

"How should I know? Ask Macnair or Rookwood," he advised her. "You're the only woman I've so much as looked at in over two decades," he lied with a suggestive smile, making an attempt to charm her away from this unsavory topic. After all, the Unbreakable Vow that he'd made with his wife on their wedding night prevented him from sleeping with other women, not desiring them.

His beguiling words did their job as she smiled back at him and then leaned down and started kissing him. She opened her mouth and began to flick his lips lightly with her tongue, entreating entry. He obliged, and she opened wide and went in deep, forcing his mouth to stretch into her besiegement. Narcissa edged her body forward and she began rocking her hips hungrily against him, digging her deprived sex into his. She brought her long, slim fingers up and entwined them in his cornsilk locks. Her pent-up sensual energy caused her magic to pulse out of her, and the assortment of frosted-glass perfume and lotion bottles and the pots of creams and powders on the vanity began to vibrate and shake. They made a tinkling music like a wind-chime on a warm spring day. It was quite aggressive, for her. But after a moment Lucius gently, yet firmly, broke his mouth off from hers, pushed her shoulders back, and mumbled something, mostly incoherent, about his hair getting mussed.

As though she was broken, Narcissa deflated on him, draping her arms around him, and resting her head on Lucius's shoulder. He heaved a great sigh of sadness and wrapped his arms around her. Lucius planted a delicate kiss on her hair, and then he began to stroke it in a timid, tender fashion.

He wanted to make love to her, but didn't feel that he could. It was as if a year with the Dementors had sucked away all his desire for such things. (As psychology was an even bigger joke to wizards than it had ever been to muggle scientists during the beginning stages of its development, Lucius of course had never read anything by Freud, and, therefore, didn't make a single connection between the loss of his wand and his inability to get…aroused.)

After a few minutes of embracing and gentle caresses she seemed somewhat appeased. She sat up and Lucius did his best to not see her dejectedness as she continued her treatments to his skin and hair.

"So you'll talk to Draco then," she stated a few moments later.

"About not looking at Agnes?"

"About not _touching_ her."

"It's difficult for teenage boys, Cissa."

"It can't be that hard," she told him firmly. "Do you want a grandchild already?"

Lucius affected a little laugh, trying to clear away the tension. "He's smarter than that."

"He shouldn't touch her, Lucius," Narcissa insisted. "She's too far beneath him."

"She _is_ a pure-blood."

"Ostensibly."

"Narcissa," Lucius stated, frustrated. "He hasn't access to anything better at the moment."

"Then he can wait till he does. It's not as if he'll explode."

"He might," Lucius said, in a teasingly didactic tone. "I read an article about a young male wizard who went on an expedition to study unicorns all the way up in Siberia-"

Narcissa put her hand over his mouth while she started to giggle. "Stop!"

Grinning, he pulled her hand away. "No, it's true! He damaged one of his hands on some rocks he was climbing and then there was a bad case of frost-bite on the other- "

"Shh!" she told him, still laughing and still trying to cover his mouth while he gently held onto her thin arm.

"There was an explosion one night and the other fellows he was with went to investigate. They found his entire tent in pieces and there were bits of blood-soaked tea and bones everywhere!"

She buried her face in his shoulder while she convulsed in quiet laughter.

"It's not conducive to any man's health, Cissa. He needs an outlet."

Narcissa pulled herself together, and wiped tears off of her cheeks before she answered him. "Seriously, though, Lucius. He needs to wait until he's married to a nice, respectable girl."

"Narcissa, you don't understand how cruel that is," Lucius insisted. "I remember how hard it was when I his age. You don't know what it's like to be an eighteen-year-old man. Sex is about all you can think about sometimes."

"I wasn't obsessed with it when I was his age," she said matter-of-factly.

And that was true. When Narcissa was Draco's age she'd been curious about sex, even masturbated, occasionally, but she'd felt no urgent need to lose her virginity to any of the men that had asked her to date them. Of which there had been many.

These days it was a different story. She was humping the water-jets in the bath more mornings than not.

"Of course you weren't," Lucius concurred. "That's why you don't understand what it's like for him. Why, when I was his age, I could get stimulated by the most mundane things."

"Like what?" she asked archly.

"Like anything, dear, anything at all. Even-" Lucius cast around for an example and picked up a long, tubular bottle from the vanity and wagged it in her face.

Narcissa took the bottle from him, examined it for a moment and then set it on the dresser. "Men," she huffed.

"Still, Lucius, I think he should wait," she persevered. "I can't abide the idea of Draco diddling the maid. It's so…debasing, isn't it? Besides," she added, trying to found her opinions on practical objections rather than mere sentimental ones, "he'll probably impregnate her."

"It's not as if he'd be doing it in front of us, Cissa. And I can talk to him about contraceptives."

"Teenagers aren't renowned for their caution, Lucius. Young people tend to get careless in the heat of the moment. If we turn a blind eye to this, chances are he'll have her in the family way within a few months."

"So?" he asked, giving her a hard look. "Nobody would listen to _her_."

"House-elves and Homespells," she retorted.

"We haven't got a house-elf anymore," he muttered.

"The truth will out," she insisted. "We do have Homespells."

"Look, if I have a serious discussion with Draco I doubt that he'd be careless enough to get a child on her. But even if he did, I'm sure they would be more than happy to accept a stipend for it."

"Did that ever happen to you?"

"You would have heard if it had."

"So it doesn't matter? You think our son's future prospects are so grim?"

"No," Lucius replied swiftly. "Of course I don't think that. But what's he supposed to do, Narcissa? He's trapped in this house, for who knows how long, and who else is there for him to…" He trailed off. "It's not as if he has access to future prospects at the moment. Or even a good-time girl," he uttered resentfully.

Narcissa didn't really know how to respond to this.

Why did everybody act like it was okay for men? As though they had absolutely no self-control, and everyone should simply look the other way. It was such an infuriating double-standard. And then girls like Agnes always got shunted to the wayside.

If impoverished, young, simple-minded Agnes was approached by somebody of Draco's wealth and stature, it would surely be difficult for her to resist. And if she was too weak to stand her ground, and too stupid to use contraceptives (because Hecate knew she wasn't likely to get any from her baby-making mother), then that was all very lamentable. But why should she be doubted, shunned, ruined - all for engaging in the exact same behaviors in which the man had participated? _Why_?

"Lucius," she said firmly, "I want you to tell our son that he isn't to touch Agnes."

Lucius had his eyes at her midriff for a moment, but then he looked up at her, and, as much as it pained him to do so, resolutely told his wife, "I'm not going to do that."

Lucius could see that Narcissa was getting very agitated by this conversation, but it couldn't be helped. If he hadn't made such a mess of their lives then Draco would have the same freedom as his peers and he could make trips to Knockturn Alley and visit certain establishments that were exactly suited to cater to his hormone-saturated genitals. In fact, Lucius would like nothing more than to escort his son to these places; not because he was so eager to introduce him to it, but, as a matter of duty, he felt compelled to guide him and give him some sound advice. He might not know from personal experience anymore, but he certainly knew from hearsay, which were the safest and most professional brothels to patronize. His own father had never bothered to do that for him, and Lucius had almost been entangled in some scandalously close calls. He'd vowed long ago, when blessed with his own son, he wouldn't force him to flounder his way through that turbid world in the dark.

"I'll talk to Draco and give him some…," and Lucius blushed a bit. All his potions were over two years old by now, and had most definitely expired. "I'll show him my book of contraceptive potions and make sure he knows how to brew them, dear. I promise."

This conversation hadn't gone the way Narcissa had planned. It looked like she'd have to find a more circuitous way to deal with this, on her own.

**~~~~%~~~~**

"The roast lamb is delicious," Severus said.

Being sure not to let it make a clinking sound, he carefully rested the prongs of his fork on the edge of his plate, in the three o'clock position, and brought his table napkin up to wipe his lips. Once on his right side, once on his left, and then back over to the right once more. If he had any food in the middle of his lips he could try to discreetly lick it off. Whoever had invented all of these silly, impractical rules didn't seem to have ever taken into account that someone might get gravy in the center of their mouth. But then, Severus had never encountered much common sense in all of his dealings with wealthy purebloods. Or with anybody for that matter. _Common_ sense: what an outrageous misnomer.

His pure-blood mother hadn't taught him these manners, for she hadn't been brought up in the same elite class as his hosts, but he had, over the past twenty years, made a long and laborious study of these finicky creatures' customs, and he knew how to conduct himself at their table.

As his eyes had so often done this evening, they traveled over Jane. She had gravy all over cheeks and chin, even a little in her hair, her glasses were smudged with grease, she had found a new home for the majority of her peas and carrots in her lap, and she was currently dissecting a cut of prime lamb with her fingers.

For the umpteenth time that evening, noticing where her guest's eyes had rested again, Narcissa leaned over and hissed, "Poisson! Use your fork, you disgusting little piglet!"

"Sorry about that," Lucius apologized for what felt like the fiftieth time. "We haven't any means to discipline It properly. And It's proved impossible to train."

"She's fine, Lucius," he assured them, placing a thin stress on the word 'she'. "What can we really expect from a muggle?"

"Has your new school year begun well, Professor?" Draco asked him politely.

"Yes, Draco. Thank you. It's been very well so far."

"Have you had any luck finding and exorcising your pesky insurrectionists?" Lucius inquired cautiously, carefully arranging his features to avid interest, not critical or amused.

"Not yet, Lucius. But Longbottom and his followers can't last much longer," he told them.

"Longbottom!" Draco exclaimed, feeling shocked and slightly jealous. He would almost be willing to go back to Hogwarts as a fugitive just so long as he could be there again and away from this madhouse. His tone a touch querulous, Draco kept his eyes on the slice of meat he was cutting as he inquired, "Is that prat back this year?"

"Unfortunately, Draco," Snape confessed, his eyes rimming with an angry little gleam. "Carrow…Amycus, that is…saw him down in the lower levels of the castle a couple of weeks ago. Longbottom managed to give him the slip." His lip curled. "Again. But we shall capture and purge them in the end. I'm positive."

"Capture, surely, but purge?" Bella queried in a distant, but determined voice. It was as though she was only half with them. Her eyes were glassy and vacant, and though they had been bred into her, the manners she was exhibiting weren't as polished as those of Severus, the half-blood. "Don't you think the Dark Lord will want an example made of them?"

"I think, Bella," he began casually, and slid his eyes over her ill-kempt personage, "that the Dark Lord has entrusted the running of Hogwarts to _me_. In any way I see fit. The ones who've already come of age, such as Longbottom and Finnigan, will be sent to Azkaban, of course. The others will be expelled."

"I believe the Dark Lord had plans to pass a law to lower the age of accountability for iconoclasts," Bellatrix contributed half-heartedly. That had been on His agenda when she'd last been invited to attend His meetings.

"And still has," Severus informed them. "But he hasn't accomplished this yet."

Everybody's eyes turned to Jane, who was happily, obliviously humming while she sent an indifferent pea down the slide she'd thoughtfully created for it in her mashed potatoes.

Bella released an unrefined snort of disgust, Lucius sighed, Draco rolled his eyes, and Narcissa, her cheeks pinkening up a bit, lowered her head in an uncharacteristically defeatist attitude.

"Well," Bella said coldly, "I think that anybody who displays _any_ opposition to The Dark Lord should be executed immediately."

"Well," Severus returned just as frostily, "luckily the Dark Lord realizes that he wouldn't have many people left to govern if he were to kill _everybody_ who disagrees with his policies. It's a shame everyone isn't as long-sighted as him."

Jane belched loudly at this point, and then she started to make some very wet, unappetizing hacking noises.

"Stop it!" Bella barked at her while she slapped the table so hard that the cutlery jingled, and Severus' fork toppled off of his plate with a clatter.

"I's got somefink in my froats," Jane choked.

Then she got up without being excused and started to leave the sitting room.

"Where do you think you're going, Poisson?" Lucius asked her.

She turned around and told him, "I's gotta go the loo."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to use that word, Poisson?" Narcissa upbraided her.

"Fine then. I's gotta wee." And then she turned again and limped out of the room.

The Malfoys and Bella were shocked when, turning back to the conversation, they saw that Severus had buried his face in his hands and his shoulders were jiggling with silent, yet unmistakable laughter. They'd never seen this closed man displaying such mirth in their entire acquaintanceship with him.

A few moments later he had composed himself once more. "Sorry," he apologized. But the vestiges of his amusement lingered around his eyes and mouth.

Severus couldn't believe what he was witnessing. It was though there was a sapling growing out the top of Jane's head, and he was the only one that could see it. It was absolutely brilliant when he thought about it. Utter genius! He'd been meaning to come around to observe her for some time but hadn't an opportunity to do so before now. He was unspeakably – with infinite layers attached to unspeakably - glad that he finally had the opportunity to come here, and he was also profoundly relieved by what he was seeing. He'd been quite worried about her, even after Dumbledore's portrait had implied that she might not be as dumb as she seemed.

He was still concerned for her well-being of course, how could he not be when she was working in such close proximity to a person like the Dark Lord? Not to mention sharing quarters with the Malfoys and Bellatrix. They'd all made some incredibly unpleasant remarks to her this evening – and they looked at her like she was a bad case of head lice. Of course, if this was her typical behavior with them, he could hardly blame them. But neither could he help wondering whether they'd ever heard that adage about the flies and the honey. Perhaps not, but there was surely some magical equivalent to it. There almost always was.

"Why doesn't she just use the lavatory that adjoins this room?" he asked.

"Please!" Bella huffed. "As if we'd allow It to pollute our toilets with It's nasty excrement."

"Bella," said Cissa, managing to pronounce her sister's name like a reprove. Then Narcissa turned to Severus and composedly educated him, "Of course we don't allow It to use our lavatories, communal or private. We insist that It always use the one in the spare room where It sleeps."

"I see," said Severus, not really seeing at all, but he was wise enough to abstain from dissenting. Was any excrement not nasty? Apparently they believed theirs wasn't.

"Is she always this…laconic?" he asked them.

"Thankfully, yes," Lucius told him.

"We prefer it, of course," Narcissa added. "Although it can be…frustrating at times."

"How so?" he asked.

The Malfoys looked at each other uncertainly for a moment, not sure how to express what they'd all been aggravated by on separate and collective occasions.

"It's…not secretive, really," Lucius began. "It just doesn't know how to verbalize Itself very well, and, at times, it would be more…convenient if It could. I suppose."

"Has the Dark Lord expressed this as well?" Severus asked them.

"Not to us," Bella muttered.

"Nor in the meetings," he told them. "He never speaks of her. Do you think she's…proving useful…to our cause?"

Lucius glanced at Narcissa before he guardedly answered, "He's only ever questioned It in our presence once. He…never really praises It of course. We- "

"We aren't sure," Bella cut in. "He's never said one way or the other."

"But he does have her…spying for him on a regular basis."

The Malfoys and this time Bella as well, exchanged looks once more. They hadn't expected Severus to ask them such detailed and blunt questions about any of this. Is this why he'd come to sup with them?

"Have you discussed this with our master?" Lucius asked.

Severus bestowed him with one his impenetrable looks. "No. I'm discussing it with you."

Lucius wasn't sure what he should or shouldn't tell him. Once upon a happier time he would have simply informed Severus that the Dark Lord's business was nobody's but his own.

"If the Dark Lord wishes you to know what goes on up here, he'll tell you, Severus," Bella said in a scathing voice. "You should know better than to- "

"Bella!" Lucius cut in forcibly.

"Lucius," Bella addressed her brother-in-law with drooping, scornful eyes. "He's being impertinent and he should know better."

"Bella," Narcissa murmured reproachfully.

"What!"

Lucius and Narcissa were both looking curses at Bellatrix. She had no subtlety.

Bella turned back to Severus and said, "I believe the Dark Lord would be most interested to know what you've been asking us this evening."

"By all means," he replied with cool asperity, "tell him."

"The fact is, Severus, we don't know how useful he finds It," Lucius told him.

"What sort of experimentation has he done with her?" he asked.

"Ask him," Bella hissed.

"There's no harm in telling him that, Bellatrix," Lucius said. "Many of our acquaintance are curious about It's immunity to magic."

"They cast spells at It," Bella amended. Then she turned to Severus and told him, "You're more than welcome to cast some spells at It."

Severus should have asked Narcissa to exclude her sister from this meal.

After the pudding was finished, Severus took the Malfoys off guard when he told them he'd like to take Jane to her bedroom. She was in a chair playing with some of her dolls, and her eyelids were slowly dropping and she kept yawning.

"I don't see why not," Lucius said looking to his wife, the expression in his widened eyes directly contradicting his statement.

"Severus," Narcissa said. She stopped, her face turning pink again. "Does the Dark Lord know that you wanted to have supper with us and…and see…the mudblood?"

"I didn't mention it to him, no. Is there a problem with me taking her to bed?"

Alarmed by his language, Narcissa and Lucius turned to each other again, and both, by a series of encoded looks, were trying to get the other to ask him to clarify his meaning. Was this meant to be an indication of some… heretofore _hidden_, paternal instinct, or was he asking for permission to help Jane change into her nightdress?

"I suppose that depends on what you mean by take It to bed," Bella baldly enlightened him. And with a beacon of delight burning in her eyes, she asked "Did you mean walk It to It's bedroom, or have you decided to at last reveal you're…," she raked her eyes up and down him in a highly suggestive manner, "predilections?"

Now it was Severus's turn to blush.

"We don't mean to be indelicate," Narcissa explained. "It's simply that, however much the Dark Lord has distinguished you, we're certain he would be displeased if you…well, if _anybody_…were to…without his permission."

_Merlin's nightgown_, he thought to himself. _What's the world coming to? _

But he already knew the answer to that question. Their world, their endemic world, was now ruled by an unscrupulous madman.

"Rest assured that what I said about taking her to bed can only be interpreted literally, rather than…_euphemistically_."

All three of the Malfoys looked relieved by his answer. It wasn't that Lucius thought Severus would throw a tantrum if he wasn't allowed to have his way with the rank thing, but these days who was _he_ to deny a man of Severus's position what he wanted?

"Come along now, Jane," Severus called her, his voice commanding.

Narcissa noted Jane's reaction to this, her relaxed stance as she stood up and walked to him. She didn't hesitate or seem in the least bit reluctant to go to her room with him. Her words in the nook had illuminated at least one indisputable and disruptive fact. The Malfoys now understood that Jane knew things about the people who associated with their master; she probably had dirt on everybody. And Narcissa decided, from watching Jane's detached willingness to be alone with Severus, whatever she might or might not know about him, he had no unnatural interest in pre-pubescent girls.

As soon as Severus and Jane were out of the sitting room, he felt a small warm hand slip into his. He turned to look at her, but her eyes were facing forward.

When they were in her room she silently went to get a nightdress from her bureau and then she went into the lavatory and closed the door.

Severus walked around the room, examining her surroundings. It was clean, tidy, spacious, and well-furnished. When he came to the square breakfast-table stationed in the corner of the room, he stopped when he saw that it was packed with art supplies. Small containers of paints were grouped according to color on one side, a modest stack of white paper beside it, there was an empty jar full of different sized, upturned brushes, and there were other jars which held sticks of graphite and pencils, and a thin flat wooden box, when opened, revealed a water-color set. Tiny glass beads rested in miniature pots, and in a thin cardboard box he saw scissors, jars of glue, and a small pack of glittering stickers. All of Jane's things were tidy and organized, the paint brushes were clean, and she'd even taken the time to arrange it all with a sort of symmetry. Severus thought that this was probably a better representation of her true nature than what he'd seen at the supper table earlier.

When he got to the windows he saw that some of her creations had been adhered to the walls and he went in for a closer examination of them.

Severus was no expert, or even a connoisseur for that matter, but even he could see the quality in her drawings and paintings. They weren't just surprisingly good, they reflected talent, an observing eye, a steady, coordinated hand, and he found much beauty in what he saw. Jane had made many precise, realistic drawings of the manor, the woods and gardens surrounding it, or sometimes it looked as if she had drawn groups of objects that she had brought together and situated. He was particularly impressed by one with a gilded vase packed with roses and some of the magical, broad-leafed Zerdangas from Narcissa's greenhouse, and in the forefront of the picture were a small hinged keepsake box, a gathered sheer embroidered scarf, and an elaborate, three-branched candelabrum. Every little detail had been captured; every shadow shaded, and every slice of light untouched.

There were paintings as well, but many of these were more whimsical. Cartoonish people wearing silly, and often risqué, outfits like the superheroes and villains of muggle comic books. Some of her paintings weren't of anything at all; they were, at first glance, simple blends of disconnected hues. But Severus looked at them anyway, to try and see what Jane saw when she looked at the world. They were splashed and dashed, blended and bleeding, stroked vibrancy tempered with sobriety. Half-made shapes seemed to fall apart at the seams and run into anonymity - a curly-cue that transfigured to a fleur-de-lis, a silhouette of a woman's full figure that melted to a puddle of blood – or was it a foot? One of them Severus found quite compelling, but he was made uneasy by it as well. It reminded him of Lily. It wasn't a feeling he could have explained or defined; but it was perhaps just the color pallet she had chosen. The apple-pink of her blushing cheek, the rich wine curtain of her hair, and the deep-sea green of her cheerfully somber eyes. He turned away from it – the unexpected longing glaring at him from the place where he kept her in the dark. Lily was only aired out when he couldn't stop it happening.

And as he perused her motley collection, for the first time since he'd laid eyes on her, Severus began to consider that she might very well be _much_ older than she looked. In the wizarding world artists had never been given credit as beings of any valuable talent, tending to be looked down on as people who simply had little magic.

Jane came out of the bathroom in her nightdress and joined him by the window. He noticed that she'd washed her supper off of herself. He also noticed the severely ascetic pattern of her nightdress - white cotton, with nary a ruffle, ribbon, or stitch of lace.

"These are yours?" he asked, sweeping his arm around the decorated alcove.

She nodded.

Severus, a man who believed that compliments were only sincere when they were infrequent, told her, "They're lovely."

"Fanks."

"Has the Dark Lord seen them?"

She nodded.

"Has he ever mentioned them?"

She shook her head.

He found Jane's little art gallery to be more sad, certain proof of humanities promptness at dissecting itself. Misanthropy, thy name is Severus Snape.

"Are you alright, Jane?"

She nodded.

"Will you look at me?"

She complied.

"Are you alright?"

Her large eyes were magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. He inspected them with care, looking for the person who sat in the corner painting.

She remained empty and unfocused. Then she looked away again and shrugged.

"'E send you?" she asked the window.

"The Dark Lord?"

She looked at him again and this time her eyes were less disengaged from him. She shook her head at him again.

"No. He did ask me to keep an eye on you…when I can. But I came for myself," he told her quietly.

Severus didn't know why he'd come, not exactly. He did want to make sure she wasn't being harmed, in keeping with the promise he'd made to Dumbledore. But he almost wished that she would speak to him. She, like him, was hiding, he was certain of it, and they were the only ones who knew the truth about one another. He felt inexorably drawn to Jane.

"Do you need anything Jane?" he asked sincerely.

She shrugged again.

"Is there anything you'd like me to bring you or- or do for you?"

She nodded.

"What is it?"

She stood there like a stiff animal who was alertly sniffing for a sign of a predator.

"Tell me, child."

Instead of answering him, he watched in swelling bewilderment as Jane walked to her bed, took up a candelabra from the little table beside it, and using the edge of the bed to carefully lower herself to the floor, she lifted the thick, embroidered bed skirt, and crawled beneath it.

About a minute later she came out from under her bed, but she'd brought something with her. He saw that it was a small, leather-bound, gold-embossed book.

She went to the sofa tucked into the corner opposite her make-shift art station, and sat down. She looked at him then and patted the cushion next to herself.

Severus joined her on the sofa, as requested, and once he was situated comfortably, Jane curled her legs up, burrowed herself under his arm and into his side, and rested the book on his leg. She flipped it open to the middle and began to rifle through the pages until she found what she was looking for.

"Read," she commanded him.

Severus wasn't very comfortable with her snuggling against him. He pulled out his wand and cast a spell at her bedroom door, making sure they wouldn't be interrupted without a little warning. He had asked her, though, whether there was anything he might do for her, and intuitively he understood that wanting to hear a bedtime story was merely the subtext. The act of being read to – the kindness instilled in the action – and being unflinchingly embraced – these little gifts were the plot.

Human touch was a foreign country whose borders had been sealed off to Severus ages ago. He hadn't planned for his visit properly, had squandered his savings for it with stupid choices, had been too distracted trying to accumulate power to memorize the topographical maps and plan his route; he'd never bothered to study the language and customs of it, and he was long resigned to the reality that he would never be awed by the majestic sights, never savor the exotic flavors within. There was only one person he'd ever wanted to travel there with anyway, and after her death, he'd never even bothered renewing his passport. Apparently Jane hadn't given up on her dreams yet.

The story she'd selected was a child's fairy tale, about twenty pages long, with lots of vivid illustrations, many of which, in keeping with traditional children's books in the wizarding world, were rather macabre. Severus had never read or heard this story before. She must have gotten it from somewhere around the manor. He briefly wondered whether the Malfoys knew she had it here, and then he wondered what else she might have hidden under the bed.

"Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful young witch named Elphaba," he began.

She sighed and seemed to melt a little under his arm. She rested her head on his chest, and pressed her ear to it.

By the time the story was finished she was fast asleep. He nudged her awake, walked her swaying to the bed, and helped her climb in. Severus took off her glasses, carefully folded them and set them next to the table by her four-poster, and, sweeping his wand around the room to extinguish all the candles save the ones in the candelabra next to her bed, he left the room.

**~~~~%~~~~**

"It was probably just enjoying the show," Lucius said.

Warm firelight from the table candelabras and wall sconces spilled over the ample sitting room and re-shaped it into a cozy grayish haze. The crystal decanters on the sideboard and the antique ornaments twinkled softly in the shifting flamelight and the all the corners of the room had fallen into a comforting, dusky obscurity.

Severus had left a half hour ago and the Malfoys and Bellatrix were still in the sitting room having some drinks and talking about Jane. Again. They'd thoroughly canvassed the topic by this point, but it kept coming up again.

Narcissa, Lucius, and Draco had all recounted what they'd overheard Jane saying to Charles and Daniel in the nook, but they couldn't make knuts or galleons of it. One was utter nonsense to them and the other couldn't have been English. They had each asked her more than once about what it had meant, but she just kept shrugging at them.

"Of course It enjoyed it," Draco contributed. He was sipping some imported bilberry wine, lounging contentedly in a wide-backed armchair. Unlike many lanky young men who untidily draped awkward limbs pell-mell, Draco knew how to conduct himself like a gentleman and he kept his legs gracefully crossed, and his elbows tucked neatly in. "I've reckoned It has to have a brutal side after the way It kept pestering me on the day I had to drink the Amorentia. You saw what It was like."

And Jane had sneezed on him.

A few days ago Jane had asked him some asinine question about two of the portraits that hung on the sitting room wall, and Draco, knowing she'd had a bath that morning, had leaned down to her level and begun to berate her for being stupid and…well, for existing. Without any warning Draco saw her head tilt back and her face scrunch up, and the next thing he knew, his whole face was covered in a fine mist of mudblood spittle. He felt it go into his eyes and he was positive that some of it had gone into his mouth.

Jane fastened round, artless eyes on him.

Draco stood there for about an entire minute, internally weighing the pros and cons of hitting her. He'd also contemplated vomiting on her. If she'd spoken to him, even apologized, or if her mouth had so much as twitched he would have lost his control.

Without speaking, Draco had turned around and headed for the door of the sitting room.

"Where are you going?" his mother asked.

"To shower," he'd replied.

Draco brushed his teeth about four times, threw out the toothbrush, opened a new one, and scrubbed his teeth again. Under and on top of his tongue, the roof of his mouth, he scraped the stiff bristles over the sensitive skin of his inner cheeks - he'd brushed bits of his mouth that he'd never bothered with before. Then he'd taken and a long, steaming shower and washed his face and neck so forcefully that he'd accidentally gotten some of it in his eyes. Even though it had stung like hell it was a welcome sort of pain, because he imagined the soap cleansing his eye of her saliva.

It had happened three days ago but he still couldn't shake the feeling of contamination.

If Lucius and Narcissa had different recollections about what had happened on the Love Potion Day, they would certainly never embarrassed Draco by contradicting him.

"Of course, It's nothing but a brute, Draco," Bella richly agreed. "Even a child as dim-witted as she is, has to understand that magical people are her betters. That's what makes her getting involved in all this the most shameful. That nasty little thing, snooping around in everybody's business, imagining Itself equal to the witches and wizards that It should be serving. The Dark Lord ought to put a collar on It, have It wear a sheet or a bath towel, and go around serving us supper and refilling our drinks. Not let It sit down to take meals with us. That would teach It It's place posthaste."

"Hear, hear," Lucius seconded and raised his glass of undiluted vermouth to his sister-in-law.

She smiled, raised her glass of dandelion wine in return, and, for once united, Lucius and Bellatrix took a drink together.

Narcissa was pleased to see that they were at last getting along with one another. They'd been speaking to each other quite frequently and amiable lately. She'd spotted them, heads to together, thick as thieves, several times over the last week and a half. Whenever she drew close they hurriedly broke apart and changed the subject. She knew, of course, what they were discussing.

Narcissa was trying to forget not only what Bella had said about Lucius, but also that she had abandoned her in her darkest hour, and forced Narcissa to rely on – of all people – Jane to help her nurse her husband back to health. She hadn't told Lucius or Draco about the way Jane had silently and passively helped her long into that terrifying night, as she didn't want to heap more humiliation on them than they already had. Jane had tended simmering potions, cut and ground magical plants, kept Lucius, flushed and feverish, from overheating by applying cooling washes to his face and bare chest, and made countless trips to the Brewery to fetch books and bottles for her. Of course, as Jane couldn't really read she'd often brought all the things she thought _might_ be what Cissa needed, but luckily she'd always managed to bring her the right thing along with the extraneous.

"That's one thing that has always puzzled me about It, though," Cissa mused. She took a moderate sip of her cherry cordial and said, "It told the Dark Lord that the reason It went to Dumbledore was because the muggle-scum It lived with were treating It like a house-elf. But It _is_ a house-elf. It has no family, no money or connections, It's so ugly and crippled; It was left on the steps of an orphanage, for the sake of Circe! How did It ever come to the conclusion that It was fit for anything better than serving others?"

"It was because of It's ability to…'slip away'" Lucius told her sagely, even bringing up his hands to add the air quotes.

Narcissa murmured skeptically, "I suppose."

If anybody had asked the Malfoys why they hated Jane even more now than they did before the day in the nook, they probably would have said, with complete honesty, that it was simply because she hadn't helped them sooner. But that was only a small part of it.

She had used her "power" to help them. The muggle. The deformed, ugly, stupid, ineloquent, dark-skinned, muggle, with an obscure pedigree, who had a higher status than them. It was also the fact that they now understood that Jane didn't particularly like them. _She_ didn't like _them_. How could she not adore them? They were everything that she should envy, everything she should aspire to be. Not that she ever _could_ be like them. But still, even if she didn't like them she should still try to make them like her, to please them. However, Jane didn't seem to care one way or another, what they thought of her. And after everything they'd given her, the toys, the clothes, the fine food, and the lavish accommodations, she should at least have a sense of gratitude towards them. Now, of all the trite and derogatory adjectives they used to define Jane, they also had to add uppity and ingrate. It was Dobby all over again.

Another agitating aspect of what she'd done in the nook was incontrovertibly proven that she knew things…about everybody. Including them, most likely. She'd reluctantly admitted to the Dark Lord that she'd seen his servants in the lavatory and even having sex. They had never discussed this aloud as it was too uncomfortable to reflect on in the privacy of their own minds, much less verbalize with each other. Lucius and Narcissa especially grew terribly uneasy at the idea of Jane watching them in bed together. Before and after Azkaban. Which was worse, her seeing them naked and sweaty, moaning and panting, or her noticing that they didn't anymore? And perhaps even understanding why. For Lucius, the latter prospect was the most mortifying. Narcissa was equally troubled by both scenarios.

Even Draco couldn't help wondering whether Jane had ever seen him in the buff. And then it made him worry about how he measured up. She'd probably seen dozens of male appendages. If Draco was smaller than average in that department then _Jane_ knew it. Draco himself wasn't certain about it, but she might know. He was almost tempted to ask her, but what if she told him yes, that he was exceptionally tiny for a man? He'd rather not know. And Draco was also incredibly jealous of her ability to watch people without them knowing about it. If he had her power, the first place he'd go would be the female dormitories of Hogwarts. _All_ _four_ of them. What a waste that such a gift should have been indiscriminately bestowed on someone like her. Where was the justice in that?

He also worried about whether she'd seen him talking to that ghost while he'd sobbed his bleeding heart out.

Bellatrix wasn't that worried about what Jane may or may not have seen her doing, simply because she had absolutely no shame.

The thing that worried Lucius the most, even more than the sex issue, was the Lindgren baby. Had Jane seen what had happened that night? It was absolutely the most shameful secret that Lucius possessed, and as it had all happened in the company of his sister-in-law and the Dark Lord himself, there was a very good chance she had been there. The events of that disgusting evening followed him around like a diseased dog he'd once been foolish enough to feed. The cries of that child had clanged continuously over every other sound for his entire year with the Dementors.

Although he and his family were frustrated with Jane's refusal to explicate what she knew about the scum that had hurt and humiliated them in the nook, Lucius was secretly relieved that Jane wouldn't expound on it. She was demonstrating a discretion that Lucius whole-heartedly welcomed. He only prayed that she would continue keeping her mouth shut. If Narcissa or Draco ever found out about that night, in addition to killing Jane, Lucius doubted he would ever be able to look his wife or son in the eyes again.

.


	18. Kew

**A/N:**** Warning! This chapter is an ideal example of why I chose to give my story an M rating. If you are under 18 years of age, please don't read it. Thank you. I've included a small synopsis at the end, so anyone who isn't comfortable or old enough to read it may scroll down to the bottom and find out what happens.**

**Kew**

To light a candle is to cast a shadow.

- Ursula K. LeGuin, A Wizard of Earthsea

**October 10****th****, 1998**

Kew was in the market looking for supper.

She'd already visited the produce section and selected some large ginger roots, papery bulbs of garlic, and she'd even found some Facing Heaven peppers. Normally she had to make a special trip to the Wardour Street Asian Market to find the spicy red chilies, and she was happy that Cheng had pointed them out to her. She also purchased a pineapple for Long and some mandarins for Popo.

She was going to ask Popo to cook a special supper for them tonight. Kew had good news to celebrate, and after she'd finished picking out some fresh meat for her small family she headed back toward their flat on Lisle Street; but first she wound her way to Gerrard Street Liquor and picked up some excellent rice wine to complement their meal, and mark the occasion.

She was so happy today. Even though winter would soon be here and make everybody in London miserable with cold wind and rains she felt as good as if it were the first warm day after a long cruel winter. On her way home from the liquor store she couldn't keep a light skip out of her ankle boots. If only Danny would come back to her tonight, her pleasure would be complete.

On the street-front below their block of flats a small Chinese restaurant kept a little golden statue of Buddha on a pedestal beside the door, and, though she normally passed by him without a second glance, today Kew set down her shopping bags, fished some money from her pocket to set in the little green tray, and sent a thankful prayer to her ancestors. Kew and Long and Popo didn't need anymore hungry ghosts bringing them misfortunes – they'd already had enough, heaven knew. But thanks to her Danny, all of that was behind them now.

Once she'd completed her prayers and made her offering, she took up her bags, and went around the corner to the entrance of the flats above. On her way up the narrow stairwell she greeted her neighbors that were on their way out. Some of the older women, quite rudely, made her stop and listen to them complain about their ailments. Kew thought that old people were the saddest, most insufferable things in heaven and on earth. Didn't they know that young people had better things to do than listen to them describe their aches and rashes? She wanted to tell them her happy news but thought it would be bad luck to tell anybody else before she'd told her little family.

Long, or Lance as his school friends called him, wasn't home yet when she'd finally waded through three descriptions of itchy boils and two impertinent inquiries about where her English bloke had got to.

"Danny has a very important job now," she'd told Mr. Deng, the nosiest and most perverse of all her neighbors. "He's out making money, all the time now."

"When's he going to make an honest woman of you Kew?" he asked with a mischievous and slightly wanton gleam in his tiny slanted brown eyes.

"Someday," she told him, and then, instead of waiting for him to end the conversation, as was the polite thing to do with elders, she started climbing the stairs and called back to him, "The fish is going to spoil, Mr. Deng. Tell your wife I said hello."

She couldn't stand that terrible old eel. He really was the worst.

Popo was on the sofa sewing a patch on her winter coat from last year. She greeted Kew when she came in and put down her mending to help her unpack the food.

"Ooh. These oranges are beautiful Kew. Many thanks my sweet granddaughter," Popo said smiling. She pulled out the peppers and frowned at them. "Did you buy these from Cheng?"

"Yes Popo," she answered.

"They're no good."

"What? They're fine Popo!"

"That man and his wife both have the demon-eye, Kew!"

"They do not, Popo! The peppers are good! Look at them."

Her grandmother went and put them in the bin.

She rolled her eyes behind her grandmother's back, but decided to let it go. She didn't want to argue with her now.

"I have great news Popo," she told her.

"You saw Danny at the petrol station today?" she asked. "Did he ask you to marry him?"

"What? No and no," she told her angrily.

Granny sagged against the counter for a moment, affecting an exaggerated sadness. "Ah, my little Kew. How can I ever rest in peace if I haven't seen you married?"

She shrugged and said, "Ask the stars Popo."

They unpacked the rest of the groceries in silence until Popo found the bottle of expensive wine.

"Ehh! Why are you wasting money on this, Kew?"

"I told you I have good news, Popo. You haven't even asked me what it is," the young woman said, her dipping, rising Mandarin taking on a distinctly petulant inflection.

"Well, tell me what it is, Kew, so I can understand why you're wasting our money on this silly wine!"

Kew was upset and she didn't want to tell her now.

"Eh, Kew! Stop making that look! It's going to get stuck on you and ruin your pretty face. Then you'll never get a husband."

"Make the kung-pao, Popo," she told her grandmother and left the kitchen.

The little old woman brought out a chopping board, a wok, and some utensils and began to prepare the supper.

While she chopped the ginger and peeled the garlic she fretted about Kew's fate.

Danny had the demon-eye. She'd seen that the first time she met him. But he had rescued them from the 14k demons who had brought them here from China with false promises of an easier life. By then it was too late for Kew's mother and Popo's only son. They'd already been killed by the bobbies. And poor Kew had gone to the brothel, to work off her dead parents' debt. She was only fifteen, but those evil demon men didn't care if she was just a child.

Kew was miserable at the Madame Chi's whorehouse. When she was allowed to come home on Sunday afternoons to visit her Popo, she would just lay her silky black head in her lap and cry and cry for her dead parents and beg Popo to take them back to China. But they couldn't leave the country. How could they? They barely had enough money to eat, and they weren't even legally allowed to be here in the first place. Then Danny had come along.

He met her at Madame Chi's and Kew told her later that he was taken with her the first time he'd laid eyes on her. Within three months, he'd taken care of their debts, gotten Kew out of that filthy rat and roach infested hole, and found the three of them this spacious flat to live in. He paid the rent, their utilities, bought Kew beautiful dresses and even gave them cash for food and necessities. Danny had the demon-eye, but he had saved them.

Now, with help from Danny, Long was enrolled in a good school and he had plenty of time and energy to focus on his studies. He wanted to be a doctor, and Popo and Kew saved all their extra money for his future. He was a very bright boy, and made good marks. At least, he told Popo he made good marks. She barely knew a lick of English and she certainly didn't understand how any of it worked. But she believed him. How could he not get good marks when he spent all of his free time in his room, studying?

Long was headed in a good direction. But what would happen to Kew?

Popo knew why Danny didn't ask her to marry him, of course. It was because of where he had found her. Men wanted to marry virgins. East or west didn't matter - all men wanted a pure woman for a bride and to bear their children. But he still cared for her granddaughter. Though he shuffled and muttered and never wanted to answer questions about his job or his family, he couldn't hide the fact that he genuinely cared for Kew. Popo could see it all in his eyes.

Someday he would get bored with Kew, and stop coming around all together. Sometimes he wouldn't show up for weeks at a time, and when he came back he would only say that he'd been working, and pull a large wad of notes out of his pocket to prove it. For the past year he'd been bringing them a lot of jewelry too. Kew kept the pieces she liked and they sold the rest at a jewelry store and added the money to Long's school savings.

But someday he wouldn't want to make the sex with Kew anymore and then she could find a nice Chinese man who didn't know about her past and marry him. Since she wasn't a virgin she would probably have to marry someone older, a widower with some children that needed tending. Perhaps. It would all work out. The angry ancestor's were appeased now. After all their misfortunes, they had to be.

In her room Kew sat at her small vanity and brushed her hair. Danny told her he liked long hair so she was growing hers out. It was almost to her elbows now. Every time he came back to her after he'd been gone for a while, he always said something nice about how much it had grown in his absence.

Kew looked at her small angular face in the mirror. She was almost twenty now. She was getting so old. Her mother had been married by the time she was sixteen and Popo had gotten married when she was fourteen. But this was a new time, and it was England, not the tiny village she'd lived in back in China. It was okay for women to wait until they were older to get married. It was expected really. All the smart, witty English girls on the telly didn't get married until they were in their middle to late twenties.

Danny was so good-looking, for a white man. She told him so too. She told him he was handsome enough to be in the movies.

"We could go to California," she told him. "You could try to be in the movies."

But he just laughed at her. He laughed at her all the time. He thought she was quite funny.

She missed him. He hadn't come to see her in three weeks.

She reached over and picked up a framed picture which she kept on her vanity. She had bought the frame at a little second hand store and each of the four silvery sides were engraved with the word: LOVE.

It was a picture of her and Danny at a restaurant. She was seated on his lap and she looked so beautiful and happy. He looked happy as well. He was wearing a fine suit made of a bright blue silk, and it made his gorgeous eyes glow and small creases fanned out from them. She was wearing a red silk cheongsam with shimmering green embroidery which depicted traditional Chinese dragons. She had begged him to take her out for months; to dinner, like a real date. They almost never went anywhere together.

" You ashamed of me?" she had asked him sadly.

Of course not, he told her, he was just busy making them all money. Did she want to live in an alley and eat from skips? Or did she want to stay in the nice flat he'd given her, and have lots of pretty clothes and jewelry?

She wanted him to marry her, introduce her to his mother, and have a baby with her. She didn't want to be kept, she wanted to be his wife. But Kew never said that to him. He knew.

After the dinner from the picture, he had brought her back here and had sex with her for two hours. Though he hadn't that night, sometimes he hurt her. He didn't mean to hurt her, she was sure of it. But she was so much smaller than most English women and Danny was tall, even for a white man. She always tried not to moan too loud when he was pushing himself into her with so much force that it felt like he might be trying poke a hole through her. She didn't want Popo and Long to hear them and think he was cruel. And then afterward he always stayed with her all night, and held her close, and whispered he was sorry if he'd hurt her, but she was so sexy that he just couldn't stop himself.

She always knew when he was going to hurt her and when he would be gentle with her. When he came back to her after he'd been away for a while he was always so sweet and tender. He brought her flowers, wine, and other little presents, little offerings of love. He made the soft love to her, explored her, seeking only to please her. He knew all of her secret places, every fold and crook, and he knew whether to suck, kiss, blow, or lick. It was delicious when he was in a mood to give pleasure.

But then, after he had come to be with her many nights in a row, he would get less nice. Rather than showing up with gifts in his hands, he would show up with bitterness in his eyes. He got all quiet and hard to make happy. She did everything she could think of to make him feel better, wearing the sexy little negligees he brought for her, kissing him behind his ears, rubbing his shoulders, putting his sex in her mouth for as long as he liked, and massaging his anus when she knew he was about to come. But it didn't seem to make anything better. Nothing did. And then he would disappear again.

But it was odd. Because this time he had gone away again, but he was still in the beginning gentle phase and had even brought her a little stuffed panda bear on his last visit.

She hoped he was okay. If something ever happened to him she didn't even know how to find out. She asked him for his telephone number, but he told her he didn't have one. That was a lie of course; it had to be. Who didn't have a telephone? Except people who didn't have enough money for them. But Danny was rich. He just didn't want her calling him all the time since he was so busy with his job. Whatever that was.

The strong aroma of cooking ginger and garlic filled Kew's nose. It was delicious. She hadn't gotten a lunch break at the petrol station today. She hated that terrible place. Her boss was always saying dirty things to her, and making terrible jokes to her about calling immigration if she didn't work over-time when he asked. He was a horrid little man. The coffee tasted like sludge, the donuts arrived stale and the customers were so rude about it to her. It was fried bread coated with sugar, not a delicacy, and they only cost 50p! So what did they expect when they bought cheap snacks at the same place where they got fuel and cigarettes? The store was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, she had to wear the ugliest uniform, and she had to take the stinky, leaky, heavy rubbish bags to the skips! She only worked there because the man who owned it, Mr. Kalpar, hadn't asked to see her documents. He didn't pay her as well as the English workers either.

So many times she was tempted to just quit. It was especially hard to stay there when Danny paid all of their bills for them. But Popo would be so disappointed in her. She always hinted around that hard times might be just around the corner, and Kew knew she was right. She might be young, but she was too acquainted with the harsh realities of life and the uncaring ways of the world to think that everything would always be this easy for them. One day, Danny might not ever come back to her.

Kew wiped a tear from her cheek. Where was he? Why had left after he'd given her the bear? Even if he never came back she would never forget him. How could she? He had rescued her from that sick, disgusting whorehouse where she had felt that she was so slowly dying with each new man that fucked her. Even if she cried, none of them cared. She was just a warm hole there, not a person. Luckily she'd only had to endure it for a few months before Danny found her.

He was sweet and gentle from the beginning.

"Ain' no need to cry, luvey," he'd told her. And he'd taken a soft, clean piece of cloth from his pocket and used it to wipe her eyes and nose. No one had done that before. "I ain' gonna 'urt ya, doll." Many of them did.

And his beautiful eyes were so kind. He took off his big, clunky boots and lay down on the bed beside her. He put one of his long arms beneath his head, and casually lit a cigarette.

"You speak English?" he asked.

She'd nodded, afraid to speak.

"I'm Danny," he said. When she didn't reply he asked, "Got a name?"

She whispered it, still sniffling and shy.

Danny got up and left the room for a little while. She was scared he would go to Chi and complain that she was crying. Sometimes the customers did that and then she wouldn't get fed one of her meals the next day, or sometimes, if too many of the men had complained about her, they wouldn't let her leave on Sundays to visit Popo and Long. But when Danny came back he was smiling.

"Gotchya for the night," he said cheerfully. "So we can get cozy like, yeah?"

And he had stayed for four hours. He was patient with her; slow to undress her, but quick to make her laugh, and he kissed her and kissed her. At the end of the evening she begged him to come back and see her.

"Please, Danny?" she softly asked. "I be better for you next time. I not know much yet, I just start, but I do good for you next time. Please."

He promised her he would, but, by then, she didn't really believe in things like hope or happiness anymore.

But he did come back a week later and stayed with her long into the night again. And for the first time since she'd gone there, she had initiated the fellatio with him. And he kissed and licked Kew in places that she'd never before even considered might make her feel good inside. Since he was only the second customer to see her that day, she didn't feel so sore like she always did by the end of every night, and he made her sex explode and she'd cried with the pleasure of it. She hadn't known that sex could be warm and good, instead of simply painful and humiliating.

Afterward he asked her a lot of questions about her life. She cried again, when she told him as much as she could with stilted English about Popo, Long, her dead parents, and her life in China. For the first time since she'd come to the wretched place she'd felt truly seen.

He kept coming back to see her and every time he came into the room she lit up like a firecracker with happiness. And at the end of each night she would cry when he had to leave and beg him to come again.

What she had never expected was for Madame Chi, that gross, cold-hearted woman who ran the place, to come into her room one day with a little black bag and tell her to pack her things into it because her debts had been paid and she was allowed to go home. She didn't even suspect that Danny had something to do with her freedom. She was just very, very confused, because whenever she asked them how much longer she would have to work there, they had always said that her family's debts were too large and that it would be years before she could work it all off.

But when she'd come outside, her little bag of clothes slung over her shoulder, Danny was waiting for her on the street, and he had a huge grin on his face.

She ran to him, jumped into his waiting arms, and he spun her around a couple of times and then he kissed her. Right there on the street, in front of all the people walking by them. It was exactly like a romantic ending in a movie. That's what Danny had given her. A movie star moment that she would cherish until she died.

"You belong to me now," he'd said to her when he'd done kissing her.

_You belong to me. _And she belonged to him still; body, heart, and soul.

Kew heard the front door close, and she heard Popo asking Long about his day at school. After a few minutes Long went to his bedroom and closed the door. Kew knew that he was unpacking his school books and settling down at his little rickety desk to work at his studies. He was so disciplined. He was only fifteen, but just like his big sister, he'd tasted enough of hungriness and fear to understand what life could subject on the unwary. He was hoping that with good enough marks he could get a scholarship and attend medical school. They had no idea whether he would be allowed to attend university without a legal status, but Danny had told Kew that he might be able to help him. All Long wanted to do was take care of Kew and Popo, the way they took care of him.

After a few minutes Kew went to his room and lay down on his bed.

"How was school?" she asked.

He looked at his sister, her thin frame draped over his bed. She was so pretty.

"It was good, Kew. How was work?"

He smiled at the face she made, her scrunched forehead and her twisted mouth.

"That bad?"

"It's the worst," she told him. "Today, Mr. Kalpar made me spend two hours in the cooler, restocking the beer and soda, while he trained a new bloke on the register."

"There's someone new?"

She nodded, her long hair falling into her face, so she had push it back with her little brown hand and tuck it behind her ear. "That new girl he hired last week, Andrea, already quit."

Kew rolled onto her back, stretched, and then she began to examine her nails.

"I got a new job today," she told him in a deceptively casual way.

Long looked up from his Trig book in surprise. "Really?"

A big smile overtook his sister's face as she turned toward him again and propped her head in her hand. "I haven't told anyone else yet! I went by today and the nice lady who runs the shop told me I can start next Tuesday. I'm so happy Long!"

Truthfully he told her, "I'm happy for you Kew. What sort of shop is it?"

"It's a clothing shop! They mostly just sell second-hand things, but it's so much nicer than that awful petrol station, Long. The shop is small, and there are lots of beautiful boots and dresses and the woman who runs it, Ms. Christie, she told me that the workers get a ten percent discount on the merchandise!" Kew rolled onto her back again and gazed up at the ceiling, not really seeing it, just the cute little boutique where she would begin working next week. "The dresses are so cute and fashionable, just like the girls on the telly wear, and there are jewelry displays as well. Not real jewelry of course, like Danny brings me, just costume junk, but it's still very stylish! The shop is called Second Time Around, and it's only around the corner from here, so I won't have to walk and walk through the rain and cold this winter to get to work, and the hours will be better too, because the shop doesn't open until ten-"

Long listened to and watched his sister, her happiness animating her face in a way that few things could.

When Kew had been sent to the whorehouse, Long was only eleven, and he hadn't really understood what was happening to her then. But now he knew. Long knew that she had been raped over and over when she was just his age. And it broke his heart when he thought of it. They had all been sad when the hooligans who had brought them here – stowed in the hull of a big cargo ship – told them that their parents had both been killed by the bobbies during a drug raid. They hadn't even gotten to bury them properly. They were just gone one day. But then the next day the triad thugs had come for Kew.

He had tried to fight the men, even though they had guns and he was only a little boy, half-starved and confused. They'd just knocked him to the ground over and over while Popo and Kew had screamed and cried. The brutes had just laughed at them. Then one of them had picked Long up, carried him to the little bedroom that he and Popo, Kew, and their parents all shared, thrown him on the mattress that lay on the floor, took down his pants, and raped him.

"Maybe you liked that?" he asked afterward. "Maybe we should take you to the whorehouse, too? A pretty little boy like you would get a lot of customers."

He was in too much agony and fear to even respond at that point. He'd had no idea that a male could be raped. He didn't even know that he _had_ been raped, not precisely, not then. He just knew that it had hurt like nothing else and made him feel so ashamed that he wanted to die.

But the man hadn't made good on his threat. They left Long and just took Kew.

And the months afterward were ingrained in his memory as well, Kew coming home on Sundays, crying and talking of them trying to run away, even though all of them knew it was hopeless. They told Kew that if she tried to run away when they let her out on Sundays then Popo and Long would be killed. They used her love for her family to keep her hostage. And that was a whole different brand of evil.

Like Popo, Long didn't care much for Danny. But like his grandmother, he knew better than to say anything bad about him. In their family Danny was like a god, all-powerful and inaccessible. And you didn't badmouth a god, even if he was sleeping with your sister.

Kew was only sixteen when Danny had gotten them out of debt and found them this bigger flat to stay in. (It wasn't a really modern or glamorous flat; it was just less tiny and less filthy than the one they used to stay in. But at first it had seemed like paradise to them.) And Danny told them that he was twenty-five, but Long didn't believe him. He looked like he was over thirty, and what sort of man who was his age wanted to fuck a sixteen-year-old girl? A shady one.

That was Danny in a nutshell. Shady, with shifty eyes and a pet stick. He always had this stupid stick when he visited them. Mostly he kept in his pocket, but every once in a while he would take it out and started twirling it between his fingers, absent mindedly, or he would just run his hands over it. He was so odd.

And you could never pin him down. He wouldn't answer questions about himself, where he lived, where he'd gone to school, or what he did for a living. Nothing. It was all very suspicious, and Popo and Long had secretly come to the conclusion that whatever he did for money it wasn't on the up and up. But Kew adored him. So Popo and Long held their tongues. Because, whoever he was, they owed him.

Long was inexpressibly happy that Kew had finally got a job that she would like. She deserved happiness, after everything she'd gone through.

Later that evening Kew finally told Popo about her new job in the dress shop.

"And it's only around the corner, by that Thai restaurant on Gerard Street, so I won't even have to leave the flat until a quarter till. Ms. Christie said that the girls who work there get a special discount on the clothes and- "

"How much will they pay you, Kew?" was all Popo wanted to know.

"Well, for a clothes shop, it pays very well Popo," Kew said, lowering her eyes and pushing the last piece of fish around her bowl with her chopsticks. "There are these adorable displays in the window, and Ms. Christie told me that if I'm willing to stay late, I can help her dress the dummies and arra-"

"How much will they pay you?" Popo asked again.

"Well, I won't make as much as I do at Mr. Kalpar's, but after four weeks she said she could give me a raise, Popo."

"How much will you make after the raise?"

"5 pounds an hour," she responded, still using her utensils to maneuver the fish around, creating trails through the sauce.

"Eh! Kew! That's 50p less than you make at the petrol station!"

"I don't care, Popo! I'm can't stand that filthy place anymore! It's horrible there!"

"You think I like working at Lau's Laundry?! You think I like touching and folding stranger's smalls, Kew?! No! But we do what we have to so Long can go to school and be a doctor!"

"It's okay, Popo," Long tried to soothe his angry grandmother. "Let Kew do something she likes. Besides, if she gets a discount on the clothes then it could make up the difference."

Kew gave her brother a happy, grateful look. She knew _he_ would understand.

Popo stood up and began rapidly, roughly gathering the dishes, muttering under her breath about silly girls and their fixations with fashion and how when she was a girl in China they had to make all their own clothes and she would never consider taking less pay just so she didn't have to walk so far in the rain and cold, and that's what comes of spending all your extra time watching the telly and wasting your money at the movies and now on wine too and she'd always known this would happen because single young women hadn't any sense these days.

Instead of helping Popo do the washing up Kew headed to her room in high dungeon muttering under her breath about how clueless old people were and they were just jealous of young people because they knew how to have fun and old women were just all dried up and lifeless, complaining about their arthritis and their indigestion, waiting for their silly, boring knitting catalogues to come in the post, and she should have known Popo wouldn't just be happy for her.

She was interrupted from her soft ranting when she heard someone knocking on the door. It was Long. He always knocked.

"Come in," she told him.

Long came in and sat on the chair by her vanity.

"She still mad?" Kew asked.

"I calmed her down a little," he said.

He watched his sister getting her uniform ready for work the next day. It really was an awful shirt. A bright orange button-up with a patch of the petrol's logo on the upper right side; they didn't make any small enough for Kew and she swam in it. She had to wear these ugly khaki pants and some sturdy trainers. She looked like a rubbish collector in it.

"I don't see why she just can't be happy. Would it kill her to say, 'Congratulations, granddaughter. May your days be long and filled with prosperity.'?"

"You know how she gets about money, Kew," he said in his calm way. Long was always so unruffled and long-suffering.

"You don't know what it's like, Long. She never gets angry with you. Your perfect," Kew spat venomously.

Long didn't say anything. Popo and Kew never got angry with him. He was the baby of the family, the only male, and he was too quiet and inoffensive to create any contention. He just went to school, focused on his subjects, and tried to mediate between his grandmother and his sister.

"She'll calm down by tomorrow Kew. Don't be so hard on her. You know how she worries," he counseled her.

"We have so much money saved Long!" she whispered loudly, not wanting the neighbors to hear her through the paper-thin walls bragging about how much money they had, as they kept it all in cash, hidden, right here in the flat with them. "I know why she worries. I know," Kew conceded sadly. She didn't want to talk about Danny when he hadn't been by in so long. She feared that saying it out loud – that he might never come back – could make it come true. "But whatever happens, happens. And I can't stand waking up before the sun every morning and going to that dingy job."

"I know," he assured her. "It's going to be okay. You'll be great at a job with clothes and stuff. You're so stylish Kew."

Kew was somewhat appeased.

"I have to go to sleep now, Long," she told him.

She had to get up and go to the petrol station at 5:30 the next morning.

Long left. Kew got into her pajamas, some loose cotton trousers and a sleeveless tank top, climbed into her double bed, and finally fell asleep.

%%%}{%%%

Kew woke up.

Somebody had pulled back her blanket and the cool draught made her shiver. But then she felt a warm naked body sliding up to her and she smiled.

Danny was back.

She looked at the small digital clock by the bed and saw that it was just past midnight.

He put his arm around her. The scent of booze and his particular Danny-smell washed into her, filling her with longing and a sense of safety.

"Hmm. Danny." She whispered his name.

"Kew," he answered softly.

He started to run a hand down her side and it felt wonderful. She sighed contentedly and sought out his mouth with hers. It felt like he hadn't shaved in days and his shaggy stubble scraped against her cheeks and nose as she began to kiss him. His lips parted and his tongue, wet and firm, dipped into her sweet, waiting mouth. He pushed his hand into her pajamas, cupped her bottom for a moment, and then he began pushing them down.

She was eager for him and helped him remove them. Once her trousers were kicked down, abandoned in a heap at the bottom of the bed, he broke off the kiss and gently pulled off her shirt. And then his hands were everywhere, cupping her small breasts, tugging at her narrow hips, and fondling her sex. She spread her legs for him and stifled her moans as he began to circle her clitoris with his wise, probing fingers. Danny took one her little nipples into his mouth and worked it deftly with his tongue, extracting more pleasure from her willing body. She threaded her fingers into his hair and groaned his name again.

This is where she belonged. Where she always wanted to be. In her Danny's arms, being made love to.

He took his time with her tonight. He made an unhurried path from her ears and neck, with his warm, moist lips, his tongue familiarizing him with her tastes and textures once more. Danny licked his way over her small crests, kissed his way through her shallow canyons, suckled into her thighs the way she loved, nuzzled his face between her legs. Her erratic breath swelled in the silence when his tongue at last found and glided into her moist pink well. He replaced his tongue with a finger and he began a rhythmic pressure to make waves of tingling pleasure, while his tongue was massaging her clitoris. She was panting, making her unique little mewls of longing, arching her hips upward, signaling him when to increase the pressure and rhythm.

"Danny!" she cried when she came, yanking on his hair and thrusting her dripping sex on his mouth.

She laid panting and quivering, her sweat cooling her heated body in the cozy darkness.

She felt Danny slide a ring onto her finger and then he switched on the lamp.

The sudden light blasted into their eyes and they both waited a couple of minutes before they could see one another properly.

As soon as her eyes adjusted, Kew looked at the ring that Danny had placed on her hand. It was gorgeous, the biggest diamond she'd ever seen.

"It real?" she asked tentatively.

He just nodded and then she really looked at him.

He looked horrible. In addition to all the neglected facial hair, he was swaying a bit even though he was firmly planted on his thighs, his eyes were wild looking, bloodshot and yellow in the corners, and deep blue crescents beneath them gave her the impression that he hadn't slept properly for days and days. Even his skin was looking rather sallow and yellowy.

"Danny!" she started, sitting up and startling him with her exclamation. "What be matter? You sick?" she asked in alarm.

"No," he told her, his voice so gravelly and worn it simply added to the idea that he might be ill. He kept furtively glancing around the room, in the corners and even at the ceiling once or twice.

"Will you marry me, Kew?" he asked, ceasing his studying of the empty air and looking at her.

"Well, I- " She broke off uncertainly. "You drunk Danny?"

He nodded. "A bit. But would you's please marry me Kew?" he asked again.

Kew couldn't believe that he was finally asking her to marry him. She desperately wanted this to be real, but his appearance combined with his intoxication couldn't help but make her wonder if he was completely in control of his senses. Was this something he was going to change his mind about later?

Kew wanted to be his wife with all her heart, always had, but she had just never expected him to actually ask. And this was not the way she imagined him asking her either. She thought he would show up much earlier in the evening, tell her to fix herself up nice, and then take her out to a fancy restaurant and propose to her over champagne and candles. And then he would take her off to his huge posh flat or townhouse or wherever he lived, and she would finally get to meet his mother. And then they would spend the rest of the night packing her things so she could move in with him right away, and while they boxed up her pretty clothes and her pictures and jewelry – the shabby furniture would all stay here for the next poor little tenants, for of course at Danny's palace there would be beautiful, undreamed of luxuries for her to be mistress of – they would talk about how many children they wanted to have, and Danny would joke around about how he wanted to have ten, and she would act all shocked, but then she would cleverly turn it around on him and pretend to reveal that she'd always wanted to have a really big family, and then he would tell her he was only teasing and he thought that two would be perfect and she would laugh and say that's fine, because two was how many she'd always wanted as well, one boy and one girl, in that order. And everything would be perfect. A happy movie ending, just like she'd always dreamed.

He could see the doubt in her eyes. "I ain gonna change my mind 'bout this Kew," he assured her. "Please marry me. Tell me we'll spend the rest of our lives together," he pleadingly commanded.

His eyes were so desperate; their unflinching blue were filled with a barren sort of hopefulness. She couldn't refuse him.

"Course I will," she told him. "Yes."

The two of them were studying each other in the weak lamp light, both filled with doubt and confusion.

"Ain' ya 'appy?" he wanted to know.

"Yes, Danny," she assured him. But she was experiencing such a shocking, worried feeling; was she happy?

"You ain' actin' 'appy," he said accusingly.

"Danny what's matter? You look terrible!" she burst out.

"I's fine doll," he told her. "I's fine." And he tried to smile at her but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I jus' wan' ya to be 'appy, Kew."

"Well, I want marry you, Danny," she said. "I happy, but where you been, Danny? You look bad. You look like you very sick, Danny."

"I'm fine Kew." He pulled her into her arms and held her close.

He lay down on the bed after a moment and pulled her on top of him. He began to carefully guide his sex into her.

"What about welly?" she asked.

"Let's make a baby Kew," he whispered.

Now her whole face lit up. "Really!" she squealed in delight. "You mean Danny?"

He smiled back at her - this time happiness crept out of his eyes at her - and he nodded.

Kew leaned down and kissed him while she put her hand over his and together they melded his sex into hers. She gasped into his open mouth as he began his careful strokes, making sure he didn't push into her too deep. It was the soft love tonight, the best love. Danny knew Kew preferred being on top to any other position, as it gave her the most control of the depth and pressure.

She sat up and began rocking her hips with the movements she needed to attain maximum pleasure.

Danny studied her while she worked her sex around his. Her lustrous, liquorice-black hair fell straight and smooth over her shoulders and breasts. Her pink, bow-shaped lips parted so she could take in more raspy breaths while she focused on the intensity, the sweet sensation of his hard shaft working in and out of her squelching, tight little sex. Danny reached up and pushed a curtain of hair back over her shoulder so he could feast on the sight of her small, perky breast – the slight curves, the cinnamon-colored nipple. He reached out to it and traced his finger lightly over her nipple until it contracted.

Danny simply gorged himself on her, and he reached beneath the pillow for his wand when he knew she was about to climax again.

"I love you Kew," he told her.

She smiled and said, "I love you- oh," gasp, "too," pant, "Danny!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

The flash of green light hit the young woman in the head.

Instead of going limp, and ceasing her breathing, Kew began to convulse and blood poured out of her nose.

"Fuck!" he yelled.

Danny hadn't been able to execute the curse on her with enough force – like he'd already done effectively on Popo and Long before he came to Kew's room – and she fell over, twitching and her eyes were rolling into the back of her head.

"I'm sorry, Kew!" he sobbed.

He didn't know what to do, but he had to end her suffering.

This wasn't how he'd wanted to kill her. He wanted her to be mid-orgasm, happy, in love and ecstasy. But he'd fucked it up. Just like he fucked everything up.

Danny put a pillow over Kew's head and held it there until the tremors stilled and he knew she was completely gone.

"Kew, baby," he sobbed quietly.

He pulled the limp, lifeless body into his lap and cradled her in his arms, rocking and crying and stroking her hair and face. The blood that had gushed from her nose was all over him, his hands, and his chest, and even his face as he kept leaning over to hold her head against his and give her a few last kisses.

"I'm sorry," he whispered jaggedly to her again and over again.

Once he threw his eyes around the room, as though looking for something lost, and he cried loudly, "Ya 'appy now, ya little bitch! Huh?! Ya watchin' this, ya fuckin' stupid little bitch!"

Danny should have left Kew and never back come months ago, after he'd first signed on to work for You-Know-Who. He knew that. He knew it.

But he couldn't stay away from her. Kew looked at him like he was a hero, not a villain; not some idiot fuck-up who wasn't even a good enough wizard to become a Death Eater. This was where Danny could always come to be a good person. A competent provider, all powerful, all knowing; where he could secretly use his magic to solve every problem and nobody would "jokingly" insult him.

If Chuck, or Freddy or Mal or Tad, or any of the other men who served the Dark Lord had found out about her, she would have been killed violently. They would have done it in front of him and watched his face carefully the whole time, to make sure he wasn't 'upset' about it. "Ya know we's only doin' it for your own good, right?" they would have asked him. And he would have lost all the respect he had painstakingly carved for himself in Chuck's crew. It had happened only a few months ago when word had gotten 'round about a Snatcher that was keeping a little muggle on the side like Danny did with Kew. He hadn't been there when it had all gone down, but he'd heard about it afterward. He should have stopped coming here ages ago.

Danny raped. He raped muggles every once in a while and he didn't really mind doing it, but it wasn't as satisfying as for him as making Kew come. Once he realized that forcing the prettier muggles that they robbed and tortured to have sex was sort of expected of him, he'd begun doing it occasionally to satisfy Chuck and the others. It was just something he did with his mates as a way to bond with them – socially, like drinking and exchanging limericks. But he'd long considered the ability to make a woman moan with ecstasy, rather than agony, to be the true measure of being a man. He just should have found himself a pure-blood or a half-blood witch to pleasure, instead of his little Kew.

Ironically, he'd joined up with the Dark Lord because he wanted the money to keep taking care of Kew. He'd turned to a life of robbery to maintain this flat for her. But he'd been robbing muggles on his own before Dumbledore died. It was a risky, stupid thing to do back in the beginning, and he'd never tortured or murdered any of them at that point. The ministry enforced strict laws that were meant to prevent magicians from taking advantage of helpless, oblivious muggles, and if he'd ever been caught at it, he could have gone to Azkaban.

But when that freaky little bitch had pretended to speak Mandarin to him in the courtyard, Danny had decided it was time to act. If anybody found about Kew…that would be it. He would be branded as a mudblood-lover for the rest of his life. So Danny knew from then until now that he would have to come here and erase her, and her little family. As horrible as it was to kill Kew, the alternative was even worse.

After a while, Kew's body lost the remnants of warmth, and his eyes dried up.

Danny thought about leaving the ring on her finger, but it was very valuable and she wouldn't need it now, so he pulled it off of her finger and pocketed it while he robed himself.

His eyes were dry now, and his heart felt empty. But his mind was raging. Somehow, he was going to punish that fucking freak for this.

* * *

**Synopsis: In this chapter, it's revealed that Daniel Baddock (one of the men who was present in the courtyard in the chapter, A Little Knowlegde, and was helping to torment and torture the Malfoys, and rape Narcissa) has a young, Chinese, Muggle lover that he has been sleeping with and taking care of for about three years. Her name is Kew and he loves her. However, after Jane revealed to him that she knew about his dirty little secret Danny realizes that the only way to keep his secret safe is to kill Kew and her small family. Which, at the end of this chapter he does. He is very distraught over her death and he vows to somehow punish Jane for almost spilling his secret. **

**Thank you for reading, and reviews are always appreciated! :)**


	19. A Dissembler in an Oubliette

**A/N: Luxminder is pronounced with a short i sound like in bit. Not long i like mind.**

**Daxender is pronounced Dak sender. **

**And Xander is pronounced Zander. **

**Thank you.**

**A Dissembler in an Oubliette**

**October 16****th**** 1998**

**10:20 pm**

It was a night for good thoughts.

Crowding sweeps of Milky Way stars engulfed the night, blotting out the inky parts. The obliterated darkness was in retreat, glossed over by encroaching points of light. The clusters of stars were practically embracing one another tonight, groping after each other in their black void, tired of being cold and alone. Like Luxminder.

She was sitting in the deep soft window seat, bathed in the milky starglow, smoking a cigarette that she'd nicked from Dragon a couple of hours ago, when he'd gone to the loo. The chilly air from the open window sucked all the tell-tale smoke out of the room and she was allowing happy memories to wash through her. This was something she rarely did. It felt dangerous to remember her real past. To remember who she really was.

Without anybody watching her, her whole manner was softened, toned-down - more real. She appeared much calmer, for one thing. And her eyes shone with intelligence and a saddened, obdurate substance as they gazed into the multitude of bright stars that had come out to wish her a happy birthday. In fact, if anybody saw the slow easy way she sucked and puffed on the cigarette, they would have been shocked that a person who looked as young as her could look as equally jaded. Luxminder felt older than the stars.

According to the clock on the mantelpiece, it wouldn't be her birthday for another hour and a half, but she didn't care.

She'd considered telling the Malfoys it was her birthday - not that she'd tell them how old she really was, of course - but children always got excited over birthdays and it would have been the appropriate way for her to behave. Every time she'd opened her mouth to say it though, she'd clamped it closed again and decided to keep it to herself for just a while longer. After all, it wouldn't just be her birthday soon, and it gave her quiet pleasure to know that, no matter how far apart they were, and no matter how long it had been since they'd seen each other – or would see each other for who knew how long – she and Dax would always be almost the exact same age as each other. One of them had come first of course, but they would never know which, as they'd didn't know, and probably never would, who their birth parents were.

If she told the Malfoys it was her birthday, either one of two things would happen. They would put up a very bad pretence of caring - might even give her a cake and some presents – and she could sit through it all and try not to cry or, especially now that their hatred for her had reached such a fever pitch, they might say "And?" and then proceed to ignore her as much as they always did. Since she couldn't decide which of these pathetic outcomes would be the most sad-making, she ultimately decided that she wasn't going to tell them a thing.

She was just going to celebrate it by herself, in her own way.

Once the cigarette was spent, pulled casually down to the butt, she flicked it gracefully out the window, picked up her one candle and the only source of light she had in the night, and headed into the leviathan lavatory. The paltry candle was no match for the cold marble room, and the vaulted ceiling kept stretching darkly up, easily outpacing the lone, flickering flame. She could have taken the candle to the sconces on the wall, and held the burning flame to the cold wicks, lit the whole place up like an obscenely sparkling cathedral, but she liked being encapsulated in the small yellow globe of warm light. Her little radius of illumination made her feel close and safe.

She set the solitary candle on the wide ledge of the bath. The hot tap didn't have to run for a while before the water warmed, the way it did in muggle homes, so she turned both taps together and fiddled with them for a minute until the water was as hot and steaming as she could stand it, and then she started taking down her favorite salts, oils, and bath beads. She used them to create an infusion: the sharp, clean scent of lavender, softened by an underscore of sweet, sumptuous sandalwood.

She undressed swiftly and, even though the weak light cast by her single candle seemed to give the cavernous room more shadows than light, she avoided looking at herself in the large gilded mirror as she crossed the room to get some luxuriant, duvet-thick towels. Alone, her limp was a lot less pronounced than it was when there might be witches and wizards, real or painted, watching. When she was back at the bath, she sat down on the broad edge and removed her prosthetic limb.

Once she had it off, she spent the time it took for the enormous bath to finish filling massaging the area where the rubber suction held the fake limb to her stump, stimulating her bloodflow the way the doctors had instructed her years ago. The end of her not-quite half-leg was completely smooth, unlike an amputee's; there were no shiny, hardened scars rimming it, no puckering ridges from cut-off muscles. It was just a birth defect, an incomplete thing. Dragging along behind her, slowing her down a bit – keeping her separate from people who were born whole and taking it all in their smooth-flowing stride. She loved and hated it, equally. It had endeared her to some people, and kept her isolated from others. Like Dax. Well, not that it was _his_ fault for that, but rather the people that had decided to adopt him, and leave her. Luxminder was always being left behind.

She slid into the scorching water, and gasped a little from the abrupt immersion into the heat. The displaced foam gathered up around her face, blocking her view of the room and she pushed fluffy bubbles out of her way. She slid her bottom out from underneath her and let her body float to the surface. She relaxed and closed her eyes. Once her body warmed up, got used to the hot water, she almost felt like she was in a sensory deprivation tank. Not that she'd ever been in one, she'd just read about them. But she sort of liked the idea of them. To be completely cut off from the world seemed like it might be a sort of paradise to her a lot of the time.

She felt almost nothing in the water; her arms and legs felt totally malleable, like jell-o, and she drifted idly around the steamy, frothy basin in a purposeless bliss, and let herself remember Dax.

She pictured his large violet eyes. They were a completely gorgeous, utterly unique blend of indigo blue and royal purple – the way her eyes were sapphires and emeralds. She saw him little, sitting beside her on the paint-chipped porchswing, dangling his perfect, jean-clad legs; pumping them in a rhythmic sync with hers.

He was such a serious little boy, with a fiery intensity that blazed from his eyes and even his body and sometimes it put her on edge. It was captivating as well. He was a charismatic, captivating little boy. He was much more special than her, she knew.

"You think you're dad and mom might want to adopt me?" he asked her, out of nowhere it had seemed to her then. She knew he didn't love his adoptive parents as fiercely as she loved hers, but she didn't realize then how much he was beginning to loathe them.

"You have a mum and dad, Dax," she told him.

She wished with all her heart that her mum and dad could adopt him, and they could always be together, instead of just on the weekends. But she didn't think it was at all possible that his parents would ever let him go. The idea that a mum and dad might consider giving away a child they'd adopted was too scary to contemplate.

"So? I spend more time with Jenna than I do them," he murmured so quietly, she could hardly hear him above the squealing, rusty chains of the old swing.

"Do you?" she'd asked. She knew that Jenna was his nanny, but she thought he was only with her when his parents were too busy working.

"Yeah."

"But…" she hesitated, not even understanding enough to know what to ask. "You're with them in the evening when they get home from work."

"Lenora doesn't really work," he said in a sulky voice.

"She's an actress," she said stupidly.

Dax fixed her with a look that was half-pity, half-contempt. She didn't realize that the pity was for him and the contempt was all for his mom, not her. And she looked away from him, at one of the palm trees across the street, swaying slightly in the breeze like a giant green umbrella.

"She doesn't really get any jobs anymore, Dolly. She just goes shopping with her friends all the time. Sometimes she meets with her agent, Mike," - he said "Mike" the way her mother, a nurse, might have said 'incompetent doctor' - "and she has about one audition a month. No one wants to hire her because she can't act and she's too old."

"But Ben's a big-shot producer," she said uncertainly. It was something she'd overheard her parents talking about and she didn't really understand what all of it meant. "He has…influence," and she smiled with happiness at finding an appropriate context to use the word in – they were only seven. "He can help her. Can't he?"

Dax's face warped itself into a grisly sneer, which she hated, while he told her, "Ben offered to pay for some acting lessons."

"She takes you with her to shop sometimes," she said. "And last month they wouldn't let you come over that weekend because they took you to the zoo."

"Jenna took me to the zoo," he told her.

"_What_?"

He just nodded. Agreeing with all the shock in her voice.

"You wanted to go to the zoo with Jenna instead of coming here?"

"What?! No! I wanted to come here, but they said I needed a break," he told her, mumbling so bad on the last part that she could barely make out what he'd said.

"A break from what? _Me_?" She couldn't believe what he was telling her. She could feel tears building up behind her eyes and she started to blink them rapidly, like she was sending the palm tree across the road some urgent message in Morse code, but the hot tears slid out anyway, despite all of her desperate dots and dashes.

"It isn't just you," he told her. He didn't want her know what his parents were like, the sort of mean thoughts that they had about everybody, especially each other. He just wanted her mom and dad to adopt him.

"They don't like me."

"They don't like anybody," he assured her. But that just seemed to make her sadder. That's what he loved so much about his sister. She was nothing like all the spoiled, jaded kids he went to school with in Beverly Hills; the majority of whom came from divorced, patchwork-quilt step-families, and most of them were taken care of by full-time nannies like him. But his sister was like a turtle without a shell. Her big, aquatic eyes were like portals to vast seas of sweetness and innocence.

He slid across the bench to her and put his arm around her.

She'd never been to her brother's house. But she knew from the way he talked about it that it was huge, way better than hers and her parent's. She also knew that he had an Atari and a Nintendo, and about a hundred games to go with both of them, and a TV in his room to play them on.

"Do you like coming here?" she wanted to know. What she really wanted to know was whether he liked her, but she was too insecure to ask him that. If he said no, it would break her.

"I love it," he said, simply. "Why else would I want your parents to adopt me?"

She looked at his eyes while he told her that, and she could see a lot of sincerity in them. She beamed at him and he started wiping away her tears.

"Do you like it when I come?" he asked her, his eyes suddenly filled with fear and uncertainty.

She nodded. "I love you, Dax."

He laughed, pleased that she'd said it out loud. She was the only person he'd ever met that he could have completely normal conversation with. He never knew if she was lying to him, he never got bored with her, and even though he had to work to understand her, he found himself liking that the most. He reveled in the mystery of her quiet mind.

"Do you think Xander and Liza would adopt me?" he asked again.

"I think so," she said softly. "They act happy about you coming over."

"I know they _like_ me, Lux," he said. They seemed to like him a lot more than Ben and Lenora. "Do you think they have enough money to have another kid, though?"

Her eyebrow contracted at his question. "Probably," she said, confused. Her dad and mum didn't really talk about money around her. Money was just about all Ben and Lenora talked about. And fought about. Constantly. But she didn't know that yet. It would be a few more years before she and Daxender would trust each other enough to start confessing all their secrets to one another. "I don't know. Do you want me to ask them?"

He nodded as he instructed her, "Ask them tonight when we're having dinner, okay? Then I'll know the truth."

"Should we ask them if they want to adopt you?"

"It wouldn't bother you if I live here too? Are you sure?" He seemed uneasy.

"How could it?"

"Because, if I live here too, then Xander won't have as much time to spend with just you, Luxminder. He'd have to spend time with me, too," he explained.

Oh. It hadn't really occurred to her that his living with them meant she'd have to share her parents' attention with him. But she didn't care. She wanted her brother around all the time. He never called her mean names the way a lot of the kids in her neighborhood and school did. He never tried to make her feel bad about being born without a leg. He liked to read books almost as much as she did, and he never gave her funny looks when she used big words the way other kids did. Daxender was clever and funny and beautiful.

"I'd really like it," she told him confidently. In a characteristic gesture of affectionate spontaneity, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. He smiled at her again, his white teeth flashing brightly against his thick red lips and the olive tone of his skin. They looked so much alike.

The water was still pretty hot.

Luxminder sat up and got the bar of French-milled soap from its niche. She looked at her hands and was pleased to see that the soaking was softening the dirt caked under her nails. She held the soap between her hands and started to swiftly gyrate it until a thick lather started forming and oozed out the sides; then, using her fingernails, she started to work the black goop out from under them.

She wasn't worried that anybody would notice how clean she was tomorrow. Their eyes always slithered right over her, as if she was slathered in grease. And she wasn't worried that someone might come to the room and find her in the bath, on her own, without any rude language or empty intimidations about certain men stripping her clothes off and throwing her into the tub. Once they'd locked her in for the night, nobody poked their head in the door to see if she needed anything or to make sure her candle was still burning. This was the place where she was relegated with relish, at the end of each day, so the Malfoys could unburden themselves of her unbearable presence. This was the place where they brought her to be forgotten.

After her nails were clean she shampooed her hair and soaped off the rest of her body, making sure she got in every last crease and cranny. She added a little more hot water to the tub, leaned back again, and closed her eyes once more.

"Dolly, tonight we are going to create a feast that even the Duchess of York couldn't resist," her dad told her as he tied a big apron around his middle.

She giggled. Her dad was such a goof.

She was standing on a stool at the sink washing some lettuce. If her mother were home from work, she wouldn't be on a rolling stool. But her dad rarely discouraged her from doing anything that a kid with two legs would do.

"Maybe she'll smell it," she said, playing along. "Maybe she'll ring the bell and ask if she can eat with us." When she was at school, she talked like an American, but at home she talked like her dad and mum did.

"Well, the Santa Anas are blowing something fierce this time of year. It _could_ carry the savory smell of our scrrrumptious supper to our motherland and into her royal nostrils. So she might very well decide to make that trans-Atlantic journey to dine with the diaspora," he said, his accent broadening, the way it always did when he talked about his beloved Britain. And he since he was talking about the royal family, he added some silly posh inflections. "Perhaps we should bring out the good china."

She laughed at him again.

"What are we making, Daddy?"

"Zucchini casserole and…" he stopped.

"And?"

"And?" he returned.

She looked down at the lettuce in her hands. "Salad?"

"That's an excellent idea my dear. Why don't you grab some lettuce and wash it for us?" he asked as he headed over to the sink to grab a shallow baking-pan from the cupboard by her feet. When he got close enough to see the head of lettuce in her hands he made an exaggerated face of mock surprise at her, clapping his hands on his cheeks and drawing in an audible gasp. "How'd ya get it so fast, Dolly?"

"_Dad_," she scolded him, and rolled her eyes. But she couldn't help giggling at him, no matter how corny he acted. "You left it by the sink."

"Oh. That explains that then."

He let her cut the zucchini. "Very good, dear. Perfect, uniform slices."

They took turns blowing on a spoonful of steaming marinara so they could taste-test it, and when it was ready they layered the sauce into the pan with the squash, mozzarella, and some fresh basil leaves from her dad's herb garden.

Once the casserole was in the oven they debated over what to put in the salad.

"We should finish off the carrots, Dad. They're looking a bit dodgy."

"Well zen by all means, Luxie, off weez zair 'eads."

"Some capsicum would be good, don't ya think?"

"You're mother isn't fond of that, Dolly."

"But we are. Sides, she'll just pick hers out."

She watched as he took a metal wine-bucket out of the bottom of the hutch and started putting ice in it.

"You're having wine tonight?" she asked him.

"Yeah. Look Babydolly, don't put the peppers in tonight, alright? There still looking pretty fresh and they'll keep for a bit longer yet."

"Sure thing, Daddio."

Xander had her set the table with the good china while he finished making the salad just the way he knew Eliza liked it, and then he put some candlesticks and flowers on the table. He hummed a merry tune while he crafted his glimmery, visual feast.

She kept smiling to herself.

"What's got your flib in the jib?" he asked, noticing her grins.

She looked at him and her face lit up as she giggled. "Nothing."

He returned her smile and said, "Doesn't sound like nothing."

But he let it go.

Eliza walked in the door at a quarter till eight. The first thing she did was go to the couch and remove her white sneakers because, no matter how comfortable they were, after spending twelve hours in them, only taking them off could give her feet any relief.

She leaned back into the couch cushions and sighed.

Xander brought her a glass of chilled wine and pulled one of her feet into his lap and began to knead his fingers into it.

"Oooooh, my darling husband," Eliza sang. "That's feels amazing, love."

She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the cushions.

She watched her parents from the kitchen, smiling at her dad's velvet tactics. Perhaps it was the fact that she was an only child and was therefore very in-tune to the adults around her, or maybe it was her dad's belief that children shouldn't be cosseted, or it could have been due to the fact that they lived so close to Hollywood, but it was most likely that, now she was going on ten and was finally aware of her ability to slip away, she often watched her parents when they thought they were alone, but whatever the case – a combination of it all probably – she knew exactly what her dad was angling for. He was a pretty smooth operator.

After five minutes Elizabeth shoved her other foot into his lap. "This one's starting to feel left out, hon."

"We don't want any part of you to feel left out." He started massaging the proffered foot.

Eliza issued a very girl-like giggle. "Xan."

"'Ow's it at that ol' 'ospice, luvey?" he asked.

"Mmm. Okay. I think I might off that fellow Patel."

"What was he up to today?"

"Oh, just the usual idiocy. You know how I told you last week he was making such an unholy fuss over the trolleys?"

"Yeah. He wanted the old ones put away in storage and it was making all the maintenance workers talk about going on strike."

"Right, well, today he told the poor dears to bring them back out."

"What? Why?"

"Well, apparently he hadn't got it cleared with the right people, and it came from up top that the old ones have to be used till next May."

"Really?"

"Yes," she groaned. "We replace the old gurneys every May. I told him that, Janice told him that, everybody pretty much told him that. Even Eduardo, the head of maintenance knows it, and told him so. But why would he listen to any of us? We've only been there eons longer than him.

"I don't know how he got that job! They should have promoted someone from inside the hospital, instead of bringing in some puffed-up, pig-headed, know-it-all, nobody. He's insufferable, Xan."

She was a little surprised by her mother's harsh language, but this new guy at the hospital, Patel, really had her wound up.

"They should have given you the job, Eliza," he told her. She laughed. "It's true. You could do his job loads better than him, I bet."

"Aw, you're a dear for saying it," she said, grinning happily.

"You know I mean every word." He released the foot he was working on, leaned over his wife and kissed her.

She kissed him back for about thirty seconds but then she pushed him away. She was way too tired and stressed-out for her mind to head in that direction just yet. But Xander wasn't discouraged. He still had some tricks up his sleeve.

"What's that delicious smell wafting in from the direction of the kitchen?"

"It's a fabulous concoction of my own invention, Sweetiekins."

By now Luxminder had come out of the kitchen, and she was perched on the armrest watching them. She snorted and said, "I'm surprised you can smell supper over the stench of his stop bath."

"Ha. Ha," was his sarcastic response to his daughter's teasing remark.

Her mother chortled a bit and then she moaned and said, "I'm knackered."

"Well, I'm peckish you silly lovebirds," she contributed from the end of the couch.

"Oh, you poor starving little darling!" her mother laughed. "Come here, Dollface."

She went and leaned over her mum and got a hug and a kiss.

"Did you help Daddy cook?"

She nodded.

"You're getting to be such a big girl," her mum cooed at her while she stroked the side of her face and admired her. Her mum and dad both thought she was the most beautiful child they'd ever seen.

Then her dad teased her, "I knew when we adopted you that someday you'd turn out right useful."

She and her mum laughed and she said, "Thanks!" while her mom cried, "Xan!"

"Let's eat!" her dad crowed.

At the dinner table Elizabeth complimented everything, the food, the fragrant, pink oleanders and the candles, and Alexander made sure that her wineglass stayed full.

They asked her about school and she told them about a history project that her teacher had assigned them to complete by Christmas break.

"What do you think you want to do it on Luxminder?" her mum asked her.

"Sacagawea."

"Gesundheit."

"_Dad_."

"Well, that sounds lovely," her mother told her. She'd grown up in England of course and wasn't really certain who Sacagawea was.

"I read a book about her this summer and she's fascinating," she told them.

Her dad gave her an indulgent smile. "What's so fascinating about her?"

"When she was twelve she was kidnapped during an annual raid that the Hidatsa's made every year on the Shoshone. Then when she was only thirteen, this horrid man named Charbonneau _won_ her when he was _gambling_ and he took her and this other native named Otter Woman for his _wives_."

"Ew," her mother said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She mirrored her mum's face and said, "Right?

"Then when she was only about fourteen or fifteen, historians aren't positive, she had her first baby. And then, only a few months later, she helped Lewis and Clark on this really long expedition to reach the west coast. She was really useful to them. When they were near starving she gathered plants and herbs for them to eat, and one time when their boat was capsized she swam around and gathered their belongings. They couldn't have done it without her. In fact, by all accounts she was much more useful to the silly palefaces, than her rapist husband."

"Was he a rapist?" her dad asked.

"He was, Daddy," and then she laughed. "Before he married her, when he lived up north in Montreal, this old woman caught him raping her daughter, so she stabbed him with a canoe awl."

Her dad and mum laughed. "Sounds like he got what he deserved then," Xander said brightly.

"But the most interesting thing of all is the controversability over when Sacagawea really died. See, Charbonneau- "

"Controversy," her dad corrected her.

"Yes, that's what I meant, Dad. When her husband went off and left her while he went on some fur trading expedition, she supposedly got sick and died, but then decades later these rumors circulated that she'd really escaped and gone with this Comanche man to live up north. It was a controversy, you see. About when she'd actually died. That's what I'm going to focus on in my report."

"Sounds fascinating," her dad agreed with her. Then he chuckled softly and asked, "So she saved the silly palefaces' hides, eh?"

She nodded and shoved a big pile of her gooey casserole into her mouth.

"Don't take such big bites," her mother chided.

"So what do you reckon the director will do about this Patel prat, Liza?" her father non-sequitured.

She was surprised her dad had reintroduced the subject since, by all appearances, he was hoping to get lucky tonight.

Her mum sighed and said, "Who knows?"

"He sounds completely daft."

Her mother shrugged and ran a frustrated hand across her forehead. "Yeah well, eventually our director will cotton-on to that fact."

"I'm not surprised at how thick he is. He flunked out of medical school," her dad related casually.

"What?" her mother asked, clearly shocked by her husband's little bombshell.

"What?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"He did not!" she exclaimed.

"He did too," her dad maintained, his light brown eyes sparkling with contained mischief.

"How do you know that?" her mother asked, her voice tinged with skepticism.

"His ex-wife's sister is a teller at the place where Margo banks," he told her. Then he bobbed his eyebrows up and down a few times while he smirked at her.

Eliza's whole face was suddenly overcome with a suppressed glee and she emitted a deep chuckle. "Oooh. You always know just what to say to cheer me up, darling," she told him with twinkling eyes.

"I thought you'd like that, love," he murmured and leaned in for another kiss. This time she was more relaxed and less unhappy so she let him linger.

"Can I have a pet for my birthday?" she asked when they'd finished kissing.

"What sort of pet?" her mum asked.

"A great pet."

"What sort of pet?" her dad asked.

"A unique pet."

"For the hundredth time, Luxminder, we can't get you a baby penguin," her mum told her exasperated.

"Not a penguin."

"Then what sort of pet?" her dad pressed.

"I want a chicken."

Eliza and Xander looked at each other, her mum looking slightly frustrated, her dad highly amused.

"Why on God's green earth do you want a chicken?" Eliza asked.

"It could be dead useful, Daddy. If we let it roam loose in the backyard, it'll eat the bad insects in the vegetable garden _and_ it's poo will fertilize the soil."

Xander couldn't help laughing. "And if there's an apocalypse like that loon who stands on the corner by the grocery store is always shouting about, and we're starving, we could also eat it."

"We'd never eat her," she told him calmly. "We'd love her."

"I'm not certain I could ever love a chicken, Dolly," her mum said pensively, "no matter how useful it is. Why don't you ever ask for a normal pet? Don't you want a-a…a gerbil or something." Eliza shuddered a bit, saying that. She detested rodents.

"You could love a gerbil?" she asked her mom with a knowing, impish grin.

"Hasn't it occurred to you, little lady, if we had a chicken roaming around in our backyard, Shere Khan would eat it?" Eliza asked her.

Shere Kahn was this humungous tomcat who wandered around their little neighborhood and he was bigger than an ocelot and twice as wild. His real name was Dulce, and he belonged to a little Hispanic family a few houses down from theirs, but the people who officially owned him and had haphazardly named him, didn't have much interest in trying to civilize him. Despite numerous complaints by various incensed families that he killed the exotic hummingbirds that came to drink from the winding, tangled trumpet vines, and that he overturned metal trashcans, and that he shredded everybody's window screens when he used them to sharpen his claws, the Ecuadorians still gave him a free and unsupervised rein. And, in spite of the fact that he'd made Billy Foster's pitbull cry, they still called him Dulce.

"Fine then, can I have a puppy?" she asked.

Her father gave her a dark look.

"Luxminder." It wasn't quite a groan, but it wasn't exactly a happy sound.

Her memories, all of her memories, weren't like drowsy-morning half-dreams. Her family was as lucid to her as graphite on white paper. Every thread of gray in their hair, every crease when they smiled and frowned, was sown into her skin. The sounds of their voices were sketched over her, and the vinegary scent of her dad's stop bath was inked into her mind, like a tattoo.

She realized that tears were falling into the bathwater.

She always cried when she remembered them, that's why she didn't let herself think about them very much. Remembering her past never felt safe – even if Snakeface couldn't read her thoughts. For the most part she just tried to embody her persona, to be Jane Wellington, ignoramus orphan, who was raised in the gutters. She tried not to think in words, or to think about anything.

Her parents and her little sister had died in a car collision a couple of months after her fourteenth birthday, and there hadn't passed a single day from then until now, when she didn't wish she'd been in the car with them.

She sat up and took a few deep breaths, collecting herself. It was a night for happy indulgences, not self-pity.

She ran her hand down the flat plain of her stomach, and then dipped two of her fingers between her legs.

Masturbating wasn't something Luxminder felt the urge to do very often. Especially since she'd come here. She felt way too uncomfortable the majority of the time in this mausoleum of a manor, this embellished tomb. All of the portraits were kept to the communal areas around the house, none were placed in bedrooms, or even spare bedrooms, and that was a relief. But she never felt like she had complete privacy. What if somebody _did_ decide to walk into the room without knocking? She would die of mortification if anybody caught her in the act.

She'd tried doing this a couple of times in the last four months since she'd come here, but both times her enjoyment had simply plateaued and she'd rapidly given it up as a lost cause. But tonight, since it was almost her birthday, she wanted to give it another go.

She stretched back and rested her neck on the cool curved corner of the mini-pool, and spread her legs to have better access to the folds of her sex. Gently pulling them together over the sensitive nodule of her clitoris, she used the slick inner-sides of her labia as a shield between the coarser skin of her fingers and the delicate tissue of her body's most pleasure-receptive tip.

She pressed lightly, reserving pressure till later, and began to work the folds of her hood over her clitoris back and forth, and then she switched to circular motions to avoid a numbing repetition. When she read about sex in romance novels she often wondered whether any of the people writing them had ever actually had sex; nobody described this sort of thing very accurately as far as she was concerned.

In spite of the fact that she'd seen so much sex as a result of her ability to hang around unseen and watch random people – sometimes she thought that she'd probably seen as much of it as a porn director, which had eventually imbued her with the clinical detachment of a doctor – her fantasies were as chaste as her intact hymen.

She was in a big bed, and nimble slices of light angled down from high somber windows, flowng through gossamer curtains that fountained down the four sides of the bed, like a gauzy mosquito net. She was wearing an almost-sheer, satin gown, the hem and bodice were trimmed with scalloped lace and it made her feel unhurried and sexy. There was a young man with her. This imaginary lover was very transformable and she often changed the lines of his shape and the colors of his eyes, hair, and skin depending on her mood, but in essentials he stayed the same. He was handsome and considerate; a gentleman. He never tried to pressure her into anything that might make her uncomfortable. They were as awkward and fumbling as babes in the bed together. But what they lacked in experience and skill, they made up for with passion.

Her make-believe man had no distinctive face, and no name. But he had a rock-hard body. Sinewy, graceful limbs; darker skin than hers tonight, brown and glowing; a full, sensuous mouth; long, beautiful, piano-playing fingers that skimmed her shy, expressive breasts and clung hungry to her hips. It was his hand between her legs. He held her so tight - as if his life might depend on how close he could hold her to him without hurting. He kissed her sweet, whispered her real name to her. He always had a deep, sultry voice, and he used his clever lips and tongue to trace sensual paths over the line of her jaw, up around her earlobes, and then he moved down her neck and started exploring the hollow dips above her collarbones. His breath was warm and damp on her amenable flesh.

Perhaps it was that the hot water had burned so much stress out of her otherwise frightened, frigid body, but tonight she was really feeling it.

When this nebulous young man finally brought her to orgasm, she didn't moan, or even gasp, the way the perfect protagonists of smutty romance novels always did. She stopped breathing, curled in on herself. Her legs shuddered and trembled as the intense frissons coursed down her thighs, and they swept upwards as well, engulfing her abdomen, coiling around her shoulders and spiraling down her arms. Then the pleasure frenetically unfurled in her mind, melting away every part that didn't concern pure chaotic ecstasy.

When it was over, when all the rapture had subsided completely, she collapsed and took two deep, juddering breaths. She basked in the afterglow. So much blood had abandoned her extremities, whooshed away to pool in her genitals, that her toes and fingertips had gone numb. But even more delicious than that, was the tingling, fizzling feeling in her lips and at the end of her tongue.

Would she live long enough to get the chance to ever experience sex? Fall in love? Go on a date? See her brother again? Finish school? Get a job? Get married? Have a baby? She loved babies. Or would Bellatrix LeCrazyLady wind up getting her heart's most fervent desire – well, her heart's second desire - and be allowed to take her behind the manor to slit her throat? As if she'd ever restrain herself to just that. Oh, that crazy little trick would make her scream until the sun came up. Her love for inflicting pain was surpassed only by her obsession with Lord What's-his-face. And she was frightened of Bellatrix. She was frightened by all of them. (Well, except for Dragon - he was more like a pesky fly to her.)

Luxminder didn't want to die in this den of vipers. But she didn't know what to do anymore. She barely knew how to breathe. Fear fattened up in her; congealed in her blood like tar; thickened her tendons and joints till she felt paralyzed by it; fear had seeped into her marrow, blackening her, and it made her feel so small and unclean. She mostly went through her days in a kind of unthinking trance. She could feel parts of her brain petrifying from lack of use, and the rest of it was liquefying. Sometimes fat, traitorous, polysyllabic words would float up at her, through the rancid pool of stupidity that she'd trained her mind to become. She hated it when this happened, but she seemed to have absolutely no control of it and this terrified her. Was she going crazy?

She remembered Sirius begging her to quit spying, to go back to America. But where could she go? She'd been tempted to go to New York. It would have been easy to find Dax, for her. As easy as lying on a bed, slipping away, and picturing his familiar, piercing face. She and Dax together might have convinced Lenora to let her live with them, it wasn't as if she couldn't afford her. Lenora, that snooty, plastic bitch, hadn't given a damn when the British authorities called and told her that her adopted son's biological sister was an orphan once more, and didn't she want to keep her now? No, of course not. She hadn't wanted the little crippled girl when she was only a year old, baby-faced fresh and artless. At the very least she could have put herself back in the foster system. Lightening didn't strike the same place twice. She could have found a semi-decent place to live until she turned eighteen and then she would have gotten hold of her modest inheritance.

But Dumbledore had kept feeding her big dollops of hope. Hope that Voldemort would soon be captured, wandless and locked away. She'd believed Dumbledore, and she'd desperately wanted to stop Voldemort. How could she not? Back then she had these grandiose dreams of Voldemort being imprisoned, and she'd track down all of his Death Eaters, and then Dumbledore would step forward, unveil her to the public. And she and he could say, "See? We have a muggle – a MUGGLE – to thank as our redeemer!" God, she'd been so naïve.

What would happen to her?

She got out of the bath, pulled the plug, and dried herself off.

After she'd reattached her prostheses, she put on a fresh nightgown, threw her used towels into a hamper, and took her candle into the bedroom. According to the clock on her bedside table, it was now, officially, her birthday.

The hot bath and the release of her orgasm had drowsied her mind. She fumbled up the side of the gigantic bed, removed her leg again, and burrowed down into the thick, numerous layers of bedclothes.

A ghost of a contented smile haunted the corners of her mouth.

_Happy birthday, Dax, _she thought. _Happy birthday…Luxminder. _

She went ahead and thought of her real name, as unique as Jane Wellington was generic. After all, it was her birthday. And you only turned eighteen once in your life.

~~~**}{**~~~

Luxminder heard something.

A quiet voice, a deep voice, a male voice was uttering something unintelligible.

She cracked her eyes and focused them on the clock next to the bed. It was so blurry that she had to concentrate, to focus them. It wasn't working. She reached over and grabbed her glasses, put them on, and studied the clock. The delicately curved hands were pointing at the two and the three. 2:15. Am or pm?

The masculine voice was still muttering incomprehensibly. Lights rocketed past her vision. Across the room. Who was casting spells at this time of night? And why?

She sat up and looked around the room.

There was a man dressed like a muggle, one she'd never seen before, standing in front of the cold fireplace, wand extended, while he was casting spells at the walls.

A chilly draught drew her eye to the open window. She'd forgotten to close it before she went to sleep, and she foggily took in the broom resting against the wall in the alcove.

Fear, slow and muddled, was inching its way up her spine and stomach.

What was happening? Who was he? She'd never seen him before. However, as she looked at him closer, he somehow changed. But he didn't change at all. It was like she could see two men when she looked at him.

There was a hulking, broad-shouldered, man before her. He had a globby belly, pudgy hands, pasty skin, a shiny, hairless pate, and thick, fleshy jowls that looked like they'd jiggle and shake when he spoke. But when she really concentrated on him, she could see someone smaller, different, inside the big one. This man had the translucent sheen of a spirit, like when Snakeface or Dumbledore were wearing an Invisibility Cloak, or a Disillusionment Charm. But despite his immaterial quality, she recognized him.

Right as she registered who was standing in the room with her, he finished his spell-casting and turned to look at her. A grin of sheer malice lit his face when he saw her sitting up, her face full of dread, taking him in.

She opened her mouth, drew in as much air as her lungs could hold, and trumpeted a blast of bloodcurdling terror. It was a call for help. Would they come in time to save her?


	20. A Fable

**A/N: Thank you so much, my darling new friend, MirandNack, for helping me edit this. I guess she's sort of my new... Well, my first beta. Thanks to everyone who has and will leave reviews. Realizing I have a new one never fails to give me a big, goofy grin!**

**I'm going to write another, or perhaps my first, disclaimer. Everybody else does it. Many people do it every chapter. I feel as if it's just stating the obvious and sort of a waste of time, and besides, when I created my account I was shown a list of authors who don't want their books spun into fanfiction (including Anne Rice and Robin McKinley) and J.K. Rowling's name wasn't on that list. Well, anyways, here goes: I don't own Harry Potters, my beloved Malfoys or any of the other characters herein. Except Jane. And Daniel Baddock. And a few others that I invented to perpuate my plot. Okay I just feel sequacious now. **

**Hope you like the chapter!**

**A Fable**

**October 17****th**** 1998**

**2:15 am**

She knew, the second she recognized him, what he'd come for. And she knew deep inside of her that his pretty young Chinese woman was now dead.

She was surprised by how casually he was accepting all of her screaming. She would have thought he'd have gagged her and tied her up first thing, but he was just smiling, as though pleased. He stood there for more than a minute and let her scream her head off - lungs out. She didn't even consider begging, not yet. There wasn't time for that yet. She knew that what she needed was help. The door was locked, her leg was off, and she was a tiny person. A small, helpless…_female._ And he was a man. Big fat man, or slightly smaller Daniel mattered not. His insidious, blood-chilling smile told her everything she needed to know; his eyes were dead and she'd seen that look before. She knew that Kew's departing soul had latched on to his mercy and taken it to be with her in the afterlife, perhaps for the company.

He finally headed toward the bed, and when he swerved to come around the right side of it, she moved to the left. Once again he demonstrated a lack of concern for any aid that might be coming for her, as he was walking for her, not running, and he simply laughed at her speedy removal to the other side of the bed.

God, her throat was burning. How much longer could she keep up this level of piercing screaming before her voice died? Where in hell were her 'protectors'?

He slowly climbed up the bed; his heavy-limbed movements were thick and bovine. He wasn't used to maneuvering in this bigger body and it showed.

He was crawling on his hands and knees to her, and she was the little grey mouse, and he was the fat, white cat with a satisfied, cream-licking grin.

She had no choice; she had to get off the bed.

He started laughing again as he watched her hopping around the bed, trying to get to the door.

She was nimble and balanced on one foot, like a spry kangaroo rat, and when she made it to the door - and started ripping at the handle and banging on it so hard she thought she was breaking bones - she couldn't help turning her head to see where he was. He was just getting lackadaisically off the bed to come after her.

Even while she was prying uselessly at the door handle, she was still screaming as loud as she could but her voice was faltering, aching, losing its momentum.

As she watched him lumbering across the room for her, she decided that she'd better keep flying. Fighting would have to be her last, most desperate resort.

He watched her bounding away from him once more, laughed at her again. She could hear both of his voices in it, the borrowed, deeper one slightly overlapping the real one. The Daniel voice. It was so goddamn creepy those voices; it was the way she imagined that a demon might sound.

She considered heading to the bathroom, locking herself in, but she could see his wand in his hand and knew she'd only succeed in trapping herself for him. When attempting to flee on one leg only, wide open spaces are a must. So she headed toward the opposite end of the room.

"You's quick for a gimp, ain' ya?"

As she was leaping away she got an idea. She risked toppling over as she tripped even faster toward the window. She grabbed his broom, fastened her legs around it and positioned it toward the sky. It was her only chance for escape, and she knew she was just as likely to fall and crack her head open like a bloody egg, as she was to actually making it someplace safe, but at this point it seemed preferable.

"No ya don', ya lil' bitch!"

Nothing happened anyway, she had no idea how to make the broom fly, or maybe it was her immunity to magic, and she stood there facing the window for a full twenty seconds before he caught her.

As soon as his beefy hand closed on her she went hysterical. Yelling maniacally, she heaved the broom bristles at his head once, twice, three times, and then he backhanded her. Pain blossomed before her eyes like Catherine wheels and posies, and the only reason she didn't collapse to the floor was because he didn't let her. He had her now, and lifted her like a floppy, flailing ragdoll.

By the time he'd tossed her onto the bed and heaved himself up as well, she'd regained enough of her faculties to start thrashing and screaming again.

He straddled her frail body, pinned her legs under his massive weight, and he languorously unbuckled his belt, slid it slowly out from the loops like a lurid parody of a cabaret dancer, and then he got it around her neck. With one quick motion, he snapped it.

The flat leather noose strangled her screams, suffocated her.

She quit scratching at his arms and brought her hands up to the belt, trying to find purchase beneath it, but only succeeded at digging her nails into her own flesh now. Her eyes were bulging, rolling back into her head. Fuzziness crept into her periphery like the salt and pepper of a television channel with no reception, but instead of black and white and grey, the popping crackles came in the cartooncolors of blue and pink and purple. And then, just when she was going to pass out, just when she wanted to pass out, he loosened it.

Her body betrayed her brain's death wish, and cold, harsh air scraped into her lungs, feeding her razor sharp measures of life-giving oxygen.

Oh god! This was just like the last time. It was a belt around her neck instead of a bathtub full of water, and he was going to stick his disgusting dick into her vagina instead of taking the back door, but what did it matter? Belts, water, vaginas, rectums, it was all the same. Insane ruthless men, torturing and taking and for what? It was all so, so tragically ironic. She'd gone to Dumbledore to save herself from this and it had all come around full circle.

After everything she'd gone through, after the oceans of grief and loss that she'd swum through against all odds, she couldn't believe it was actually going to end like this. She'd been through so much, risked everything to save herself and her Dax, and now all of her bravery and her cowardice were going down the same toilet with one unfair flush.

On the other hand, she was thinking that it was because of her spying. It wasn't right, not a natural thing what she did. She'd used her gift to meddle in things that were none of her business, that weren't even of her world, and now the Powers-That-Might-Be were trying to restore the balance, to once more even the scales of good and evil. No light without the dark, no yin without the yang and all that bullshit. It was why she'd come here to work for a harbinger of death. It was why she was going to be raped again. It had to happen, the cosmos needed to teach her a lesson. The intimacy and the ecstasy of her earlier fantasy from the bath was just that - a fantasy. She was a cautionary tale; a born tragedy.

Even though she was repulsed by the vomit-inducing notion of it, even though there were probably hundreds of other kinds of torture she would take over rape, even though she would bankrupt the strength of every fibre of her being to prevent it happening, none of that mattered. Because she was a weak female who was powerless to prevent it, and he was an immoral, merciless man, who had perhaps convinced himself that deep down all women were really whores, and when they cried and begged they were actually teasing. Playing hard-to-get. Was all just a game to the silly slags. He was going put his filthy cock inside of her and she'd never heal. Never had healed completely from the last time. He was going to reopen the old wound, and it was going to fester and devour her up from within.

Fairy tales need not apply.

~~~**}{**~~~

"Lucius."

It was a breath. His name rode the air, off of her throat, thrown into the dark and swallowed swiftly.

Narcissa thought she'd heard someone screaming. Was it a dream? A nightmare? She didn't feel scared - alert but confused.

She lay there a few moments listening, her senses sharpened inside the absolute blackness of their bed curtains. She didn't hear anything now. She was so tired. Cissa closed her eyes and started to drift into sleep once more.

She heard it again and her eyes snapped open. It was so distant, but still distinguishable.

"Lucius!"

Narcissa slept with her wand under her pillow these days. She reached beneath her head and felt the solid, reassuring baton of wood immediately. She sat up with it, muttered 'lumos', and then used it to pull back the bed hangings, and she began to rapidly light some of the candles around the room. She only missed once, despite her exhaustion and the late hour, for fear was quickly clearing her mind.

"Lucius!" she yelled again.

He was snoring soundly still.

"LUCIUS!" She started to shake her husband. She was getting more and more scared with each passing second, and so she slapped him. Hard.

Still nothing. He was so ruddy drunk before he came to bed every night.

"_Augementi_!"

A cold stream of water spouted from the tip of her wand and she had to give him a thorough soaking before he stirred.

"Ah!" Lucius cried in surprise as he sat up and wiped the bracing shower from his face. "What the _hell_!"

"Lucius, I hear screaming!"

"_What_?" he said loudly, his voice rampant with confusion and doubt, his wet, dripping face glistening in the dim candlelight.

They sat there a moment, silently, his grey bloodshot eyes locked with her pale blue ones.

It came again. It was such a faint sound, as though it was coming to them from the other side of a very long tunnel or emerging from the echoey depths of a pensieve, and Narcissa couldn't believe it had even managed to wake her. But despite the distance of the scream it was still such a raw noise, full of fear and…pain.

"Poisson!" Cissa yelled.

It took her two seconds to decide, and then she cast two swift patronuses with very loud messages embedded in them. One for her sister and one for her son.

**~~~}{~~~**

He had no intention of killing her.

Like any man possessed by grief and rage, Daniel Baddock wasn't thinking clearly. He _had_ taken steps to ensure that he could have his revenge and escape undetected; however, he was simply ignorant about three very critical factors.

The spells he had cast around the room were an insulating magic, meant to keep all sound from escaping. If he had spent as much time as the Malfoys watching the Dark Lord experiment on the girl, he would have gathered an inkling of exactly how impervious she was to magic. He might have realized that even her voice couldn't be dammed by it, not completely.

He'd also used Polyjuice Potion to disguise his appearance. If she didn't know who'd assaulted her, she certainly wouldn't be able to finger him. He didn't care whether or not she knew why she was hurt; this wasn't that sort of power trip. It was a plain kind of revenge, meant to punish but not enlighten. He knew he didn't have that sort of power. He couldn't tell her what she'd done, what she'd taken from him, but he just had to make her hurt the way he did.

In addition to the silencing charms, he'd attempted to erect a magical deterring barrier, to keep out anyone that might try to come in unannounced to disturb him. He couldn't imagine why anyone would wander in at this time of night, but it was a contingency that had seemed wise to plan for, just in case.

However, once again his ignorance wasn't doing him any favors. He'd grown up in a tiny flat in London, raised by a distant, mediocre mother, and he hadn't been bright or focused enough to complete his education. He wasn't a fully qualified wizard. He didn't understand the depths and intricacies of Homespells. He had no idea that behind the plastered and wood paneled walls the very stones, the foundations of the house were capable of recognizing magic, and they were so sentient as to be loyal to blood. Malfoy blood. No spell, no matter how complex, no matter how powerful, not even if it were cast by the Dark Lord himself, could ever bar a Malfoy from entering any room in his or her manor.

But, of all his useless magic, the second thing that worked against him now was time. By his reckoning, the Polyjuice Potion had bought him a little under an hour, and he intended to use every minute of it. He didn't want a simple in and out and then over. He wanted to draw it out. He wanted to listen to her scream, to make her plead. He wanted to taste her tears, to ride her long and hard; he wanted to watch her during the shock, the pain, and her crushing resignation when he sliced into her and she realized that yes, this was actually happening to her. She was being fucked. She hadn't wanted it, had fought with all her pitiful, little-girl strength against it, but she was overpowered, torn open, raped. He needed to prolong the moment and see it happen in her eyes while he was murdering a vital portion of her soul.

And thirdly, by underestimating her value, he didn't understand that it wouldn't have mattered if his whole plan had worked anyway. She was a muggle. Crippled, dumb, ugly, a freak of nature, a mudblood – not even a proper witch. He, a low-class, pure-blood wizard, couldn't begin to fathom her importance to a man like the Dark Lord. She was spoken of like a circus sideshow among the snatchers. She was a brief, titillating distraction, the Dark Lord's new plaything. Daniel had no idea that, even were his plan to be carried out to the letter, and he got on his broomstick and flew away, and Jane wasn't discovered until the morning, that the Dark Lord wouldn't stop hunting for her attacker for the rest of His immortal life. For even if Jane was just an ephemeral, shiny new toy - which wasn't how He saw her _at_ _all_ - she would always be _His_ toy. And on bare, unrelenting principle, _nobody_ broke His toys without His permission.

~~~**}{**~~~

"Beg!"

"Pleeeaase!"

With a downward rake of his wand, her nightgown was sliced open, and then he ripped off her knickers with it as well.

"PLEEEEASE!" she cried and knew it was useless, but what else is there to do in these moments? Brave people, like the ones in books and movies, might yell, "Fuck you, you sick bastard!" But in real life you just beg. "Please don' be doin' this! Oh, god, please!" she howled, her voice shattering into racking sobs. She moaned it again, "Please."

According to the clock by the bed he still had another forty minutes before the potion wore off.

He got off of her, and pried her legs apart with pathetic ease. Danny positioned himself between them, and wildly drove his fat middle finger into her sex. When she started to scream and scratch at him again, he simply tightened the belt around her neck.

She was _so_ tight. He had no idea how big or little the penis of this borrowed muggle might be, but he hoped it was as huge as the man. He was already hard as a rock, and he unfastened the thick, green corduroys and pulled it out to see it. Not nearly as big as he thought it would be. Oh, well, it would have to do. She was so small and tight anyway; it would probably feel bigger than a cucumber going in. He glanced down between her legs and then did a double-take. It was so red. He'd never seen a cunt this red. It was as rich and deep red as a rose. He felt an odd urge to taste it, but then he gathered his wits again.

He realized that he was still squeezing the strap into her neck. Damn! He allowed it to slacken, watched her gasping. Didn't want her unconscious.

"Beg!"

"Please," she whispered, her throat too dry and raw to give him more.

He pulled his finger out of her, grabbed one of her little snitch-sized breasts and squeezed it with all of his might.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh hhhhhhh!" She was arching her back and digging her nails into his arm again. But the pain of the pinching, scraping fingers in his arm was intoxicating, made him harder, more eager for the moment when he stabbed into her.

Suddenly he heard a group of frantic voices outside the bedroom door. Bloody hell!

Should he go ahead and finish? They couldn't get in. There was only one wand between them. Where was his wand? He'd dropped it on the bed when he undid his trousers. He immediately snatched it up again and then he stopped to think.

Though under normal circumstances Daniel would never own it, especially to himself, shoddy wand-work was one of the main reasons he'd never completed his education. And he had looked up all the repelling spells in a book a few days ago, practiced them a bit, hadn't bothered testing them at all, and he wasn't totally confident that they were all that solid.

He should get the hell out of here. Damn! Why had he lingered over it? Fuck! He was livid now. He hadn't got to teach her the lesson.

He refastened his trousers and climbed off the bed. He turned around and started swiftly for the broom that lay next to the open window.

Suddenly the door burst open and he turned around.

All of the Malfoys, followed closely by Lestrange, were pouring into the room.

Daniel started casting every hex, jinx, and curse that he could think of at them – the bangs and explosions they caused added to the chaos of the moment – while he backed to the window.

~~~**}{**~~~

Narcissa didn't know what to think on entering the room. How in Hades had this happened? The huge man who was firing random, ill-aimed spells at them was a complete stranger.

She had the wand this time. Lucius had wanted her to give it to him, but she wouldn't do that again. Besides, he reeked like a bottle of scotch and he was swaying on his feet as he'd asked her for it.

Narcissa had instructed Lucius, Bella, and Draco to find Poisson immediately; whatever awaited them inside, they had to get the mudblood and get her to safety. But with all the cascading lights and the splinters of wood showering in every direction from the busting furniture and plaster, everyone except her had immediately run for cover. Together, Lucius and Bella retreated behind an over-turned chaise to the left of her, and Draco dove to the right, and he used the bed as his bastion.

Narcissa swiftly, easily deflected his curses and was carving an astonishingly rapid path across the room to him.

Daniel couldn't believe how good the bitch was. And she was bloody scaring him. There was something in her eyes that was completely unnerving him. She looked mental.

Narcissa, the closer she got to the intruder, was feeling calmer and calmer. Without any logical reason to connect these events, she still knew. This was to do with the day in the nook. Whoever this man was - and she sincerely hoped that he was Charles - she was going to make him scream like a pig. Her mind and her arm felt eerily detached from her as she closed in on her quarry.

He was backed up against the edge of the window seat and when he tried to reach down to retrieve his fallen broom she blasted it in half, and he had to stand up and refocus on her again. He got the feeling that she was toying with him. There was a smirk tugging at a corner of her mouth.

He was getting more and more desperate, casting sloppy-handed wand-work at her. But she seemed cooler than her frigid eyes, quite relaxed.

_Fuck this!_ he thought. "Avada Kedavra!"

Luckily for her, unfortunately for him, this spell was as messy as the previous ones and it merely jagged past her head, fanning back her long blond hair in its slipstream.

"Crucio!"

Her spell met its mark and he was on the ground, writhing, twisting, screaming.

~~~**}{**~~~

About thirty seconds after Draco had hurled behind the bed, Jane had fallen on top of him. And she was practically naked. She was beet red, panting, her nightdress was in tatters, she was drenched in sweat, and she smelled, for once, very sweet. Like a flower. She had some sort of leather strap around her neck.

Draco had no idea what the hell he should do for her, so he made to take off the belt. But she cried out, "Don's touch me!" and tried to beat him away from her with rocky, clenched fists, one of which she managed to knock into his cheek. But she was too worn down with exhaustion, and the closed hand that connected with his face didn't even hurt his adrenaline-soaked body. As soon as he pulled his hands away from her, she gripped one of her tremoring arms around her chest, and with the other convulsing arm she tried to hide her exposed sex. She was so out of it. Her breath heaved raggedly in and out loudly, and her big eyes cast around the room like a trapped, wild animal's. He felt something akin to pity for her, so even though he couldn't seem to stop his eyes from raking rapidly over her flesh, drinking in the sight of a naked female, Draco reached up to the bed and tugged the enormous blanket down. He laid it over her and then, for the briefest moment her eyes touched his. Perhaps she had seen the sympathy in his eyes, or perhaps it was because he'd preserved her modesty, for when he reached for the belt again, this time she allowed him to remove Daniel's leash.

Her neck wasn't a pretty sight. A wide, thick weal was coloring pink around it, the edges looked white and pinched, and there were small bleeding gashes above and below the forming bruise, where she had clawed at herself each time he'd choked her. He noticed that one side of her face looked redder than the other and it was sort of puffy too. His mother would have to examine the rest of her for injuries.

Merlin pants! She was naked. Had he had sex with her? The Dark Lord would probably kill them!

"Poisson, did he have sex with you?" Draco asked her.

She didn't answer him. Her eyes still roamed frantically, randomly around the room, unseeing.

"Did he have sex with you!?" he asked again, louder.

Suddenly Draco heard someone screaming in agony. He knew that the man was being punished, and he was sort of shocked when he realized his mother must be the one wielding the Cruciatus Curse on him.

~~~**}{**~~~

From behind the chaise, Lucius heard the man cry out the Killing Curse at his wife, and was so enraged that he immediately stood up. But he saw the curse fly by her head and less than a second later the man was on the ground, thrashing in anguish. Thank Merlin.

Bella followed her brother-in-law across the room toward the strange fat man, who was rolling and twitching while he released loud yells of blood-curdling pain. The sound of it crashed wave after delicious wave through her body, warm and tingling it was, and it radiated to her sex.

Lucius noticed how distinctly hungry Bella looked as she gazed at the man on the floor. She was such a strange beast.

"Cissa!" Lucius called to his wife. "Cissa!" He was startled to see that, as she watched the man on the ground, Narcissa's expression mirrored her sister's. "Cissa!" he cried again, and put his hand on her arm.

She seemed to come back to herself at his touch and she relinquished the spell and lifted her wand up. As she turned to look at him, her eyes transformed into something softer and innocent. "Yes?" she inquired lightly.

"Who is he?" Lucius asked them.

Both sisters said that they'd never seen him before.

"Morgana! Poisson!" Narcissa exclaimed, as she realized why they'd come here in the first place.

"She's here," they heard their son calling.

Bellatrix saw Daniel's wand on the floor, picked it up immediately, and used it to tie him up.

Narcissa and Lucius found Draco with Jane behind the bed.

"She's shaking," Draco told his parents as they came to kneel on the floor beside them.

Jane's lips were fringed in purplish blue, and her lower lip was trembling so hard it was almost vibrating.

"She's in shock," Narcissa informed them as she ran a finger lightly over the child's neck. "Is that why you covered her?"

Draco looked up from Jane and glanced at both of his parents as he shook his head. "She… she was… naked."

"What!" Narcissa said loudly. She started to pull the blanket down, to see for herself, but when Jane felt her trying to tug it off she clung to it and started whimpering. Big tears pooled in the inner corners of her eyes and then they dripped down the shallow crevices beneath them and disappeared down the sides of her face.

"Did he rape you, Poisson?" Narcissa asked her.

She shook her head softly and sniffed wetly.

"Are you positive?" Lucius asked.

Her face contorted in misery, stretching and scrunching, and she started to sob quietly while she nodded.

"The Dark Lord," Lucius said simply, bluntly, darkly.

"Should we call him?" Narcissa asked.

All three of the Malfoys eyes reflected the same dread.

"No!" Jane cried, her voice sounding as if it had been gnawed at by something with sharp, mean teeth. "I's ain wanna see 'im."

"Hush child," Lucius told her roughly. "When we feel it necessary to adhere to your whims, we'll consult you."

Draco thought his dad was being a little harsh with her. Especially considering what she'd probably just gone through. But he kept his peace.

"He'll find out now or later, either way," Narcissa reasoned, too scared to try and delay the inevitable. "Do you think he'll be angrier if we don't inform him this instant?"

"Please!" Jane moaned again. She opened her eyes and looked at them. "Get Mr. Snape. I's want Mr. Snape." Then she started to cough roughly.

"Severus," Lucius said. He turned hopeful eyes at his wife. "He said to call him if she was ever injured."

Narcissa nodded. "He'll know what to do. Get him, Lucius. Draco, go with your auntie to take that animal to the cellar. I'm going to examine Poisson. We need to ascertain all of her injuries. And I think I should see whether her hymen is still intact, so make you sure you knock before you come into the room."

"Her hymen," Lucius repeated in shock. "She told us he didn't rape her."

"Well, we need to be sure before we call him," Narcissa stated matter-of-factly. After all, she'd had her first taste of this sort of shame only a month ago. She now knew exactly why Jane might feel a need to lie to them about what had happened.

And now, no thanks to Jane, Narcissa would no longer be able to keep what had nearly happened to _her_ a secret. The whole story was going to come out to the Dark Lord, and, more than likely, his other servants.

"But she said he didn't!" Lucius spat at Cissa, his terror too big to bear so he had to flip it to anger. "He can't have done it!"

Narcissa lifted one of her eyebrows and appraised him steadily, silently. If the assaulter pricked her, he'd pricked her. What did Lucius expect her to do about it? She couldn't re-grow Jane's hymen. Well, with magic she maybe could, but with Jane magic was, tragically, never an option.

"He'll kill us," Lucius said in dead hopeless way.

Jane's hand shot out from under the blanket, and she grabbed at Narcissa's arm. "No," Jane groaned. "Won'- " cough, cough.

"Shh," Narcissa shushed her, gently prying Jane's hand off of her arm. "Rest now, Poisson. Lucius, Draco, help me put her on the bed, then get Severus."

Lucius and Draco tried to get her up, but Jane was getting too frantic about her nudity and she started to wail hoarsely and bang her fists on their arms and snap her maw at them.

Lucius who was still drunk, and more than a little frazzled by everything, finally lost his temper with her and grabbed her by her hair and growled, "Stop it, you stupid mongrel! We don't care what you look like nak- Ow!" A slice of fire had briefly run down the arm that he was using to grip Jane with so that he was forced to release her.

He looked at Narcissa. She pointed over his shoulder and Lucius turned around and saw Bellatrix pointing the intruder's wand at him. She waved her index finger and 'tsk'-ed at him a few times. Her whole face was effulgent with delight. While the Malfoys were dealing with Jane, Bella had cast a silencing charm on the burly bastard and tortured him. She was high and breathless and felt a surge of generosity toward Jane.

"Now, now, Brother," she rebuked him cheerfully, "we mustn't hurt our little charge. No matter how badly she deserves it. Besides, I think she'll pass out if she has any more pain. Trust me," she said with a wink and a smirk. "I can always tell."

Bella's chocolate eyes were shining brilliantly and her heavy brown hair fell about her shoulders and waist in loose curls and waves. Her skin shone magnificently with exultation, and her happiness had somehow tamed years from her face. All of them, as they looked her over, couldn't help noticing that she was sort of beautiful again. Lucius had more opportunities than his wife and son to observe his sister-in-law while she inflicted pain on the hapless – any excuse would suffice, be it flimsier than an undergarment – and he knew that when she was in any position to actuate her sadistic whims, Bella glowed.

The Malfoys saw the intruder magically bound in the air behind Bella. He was still conscious, and his watery brown eyes were squinted at Jane with hatred. His doughy mouth was shutting and opening while his tongue worked over his teeth and lips.

"Did he tell you who he is or why he came?" Lucius asked his sister.

"I haven't got 'round to asking him yet," she panted. "All in good time.

"We should call our master," she told them, and started to raise the sleeve of her nightgown.

"Not yet!" Lucius called loudly, while Cissa cried, "Wait!"

Bella bestowed a confused look on them. "He needs to know what's happened!"

"Of course he does," Lucius agreed in a placating tone, "but we're going to get Severus first, and Narcissa's going to examine Jane to be sure he didn't…compromise her hymen."

"What?!" Bellatrix exclaimed. "What?!" she repeated. "Did you _fuck_ her?!" she shouted at the suspended man. Bella waved the usurped wand at him and he began to writhe, his loose, pasty flesh jiggling. She released the spell, and he hung limp and spent.

"Just take him to the cellar and lock him in, Bella," Narcissa commanded her imperially. "Once I've completed my assessment of her injuries and we've consulted Severus, we'll call the Dark Lord."

Lucius was pleased that his wife was taking charge because he was dizzy and exhausted and felt utterly incapable of rational thinking. How had this happened? Why hadn't his protection spells worked? When had he last renewed them? He couldn't remember, but an icy ball of fear in his stomach was indicating to him that he may have been remiss in refreshing them as frequently and thoroughly as he should have done. Was this his fault? And, if so, what would the consequences of his negligence be to him and his family?

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_**IMPERIO! **_**Ha, Ha, Ha! I have you all under my control. Now review! (Please. ;)**


	21. Severus

**Severus**

Severus was brought out of his vigilant doze by the voice of Lucius Malfoy. He opened his eyes immediately and found the glowing form of his wolverine patronus.

"The mudblood's been attacked, Severus. Please come immediately and advise us."

The brevity of this message only accelerated the donning of his black robes and the running of a comb through his oily locks.

His boots resounding off the marble tiles, he swiftly passed through the antechamber that separated his private living quarters from his headmaster study. As soon as he entered the cluttered, opulent room, all the portraits of his predecessors roused in their frames, sat up, and bestowed him with expectant looks. Severus sought Dumbledore and as soon as his onyx eyes found the hyacinth blues he said, "Jane's been attacked."

Dumbledore's eyebrows knitted as he asked, "What's happened to her Severus?"

"I don't know anything yet, Dumbledore."

He went to the wide fireplace, used his wand to rekindle the dying fire, and reached for the vase of floo powder that sat on the mantle. "Lucius has just sent a message informing me of it, and he requested my assistance."

"The Dark Lord will probably kill them this time, Severus," Phineas Black contributed.

Severus threw a pinch of the jade dust into the fire, stepped into licking, emerald warmth and told them, "Not if I can prevent it. Malfoy Manor, east wing, third floor, sitting room!"

After the dizzy-inducing spin had delivered him to his destination, Severus took two careful strides out of the receiving fireplace and he felt Lucius's steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Lucius," he told him. He was still for a moment while he swallowed a few times against the nausea that never failed to engulf him after flooing. This means of transport was almost as intolerable as flying on a broom.

"Thank you for coming," Lucius said. Thick vapors of alcohol poured over him as Lucius greeted him.

After a few bracing in-breaths, Severus started for Jane's room and charged Lucius – who followed in his wake – for the essentials.

"Narcissa woke me."

"How long ago?"

Lucius hesitated before he replied, "It must have been at least thirty minutes ago. She told me that she heard screaming, and as we listened for a few moments I heard it too. It sounded distant and faint. I honestly can't believe it woke her. We rushed to the mudblood's door and waited for Draco and Bella to join us, which they both did momentarily. It was probably less than three minutes before Bella came hurrying from whichever part of the manor she's sleeping in these days.

"We heard a scream again, but though we only stood outside the door the sound was still muffled. The attacker must have cast some silencing spells around the walls to stifle all noises. Once we were all assembled, we entered the room. Spells abounded. The man we found inside was desperately attempting to stave us off by hurling every dark spell he knew. Luckily, my wife's dueling capabilities are almost a match for her sister's," Lucius related, his voice pregnant with pride. "She dispatched him within a few minutes."

"Who attacked her and what damage has she suffered?" Severus asked.

"We don't know yet. We've never seen him before, but it's only a matter of time before we get to the bottom of this. Bellatrix retrieved his wand and she has him now in the cellar. If he used Polyjuice Potion it's probably worn off at this point, but Bella hasn't come back yet."

The old friends shared a look that left rendered any need for words unnecessary. Lestrange had been deprived of her favorite pastime for too long, and in the dark depths of the manor, she was now over-brimming with her fix.

"Why do you suspect the use of Polyjuice Potion?" Severus asked incisively.

They were outside of Jane's room now. Severus reached for the curved handle but Lucius stopped him. "Wait. Narcissa decided to examine her and instructed me to knock before entering," he told Severus as he rapped his knuckles against the burnished wood a couple of times.

"Enter!" they heard Narcissa call from within.

~}{~

After her family had departed, Lucius taking her wand to summon Severus with it, Narcissa had helped Jane into the bed.

Jane may have been rapaciously opposed to allowing any male to see her unclothed, but she possessed not a single qualm in permitting Narcissa to peruse her naked body as she lay on the bed shivering.

"I's cold," she'd whispered roughly. Jane was intermittently crying, going limp for a bit when her physical and mental weariness overtook her, then she roused again and started to whine softly about the cold.

"I know, Poisson," she had tried comforting her as best as she could. "Just let me look you over child. Where does it hurt?"

Narcissa was running her hands over Jane's body, trying to feel out any fractures in her arms, legs, and ribs – all the while, doing her best not to look at her stub of a leg. Her eyes came perilously close to skimming it a couple of times, and she shuddered with revulsion. When her hand meandered quite close to the underside of her left breast Jane had flinched with pain and begun to cry hoarsely again.

"Is this tender?" Narcissa asked, and Jane tried to nod and confirm, but was forced to reply instead, as her entire neck was quickly forming into one enormous, tubular bruise.

Narcissa noted that her small breast did appear inflamed and realized that the assailant must have clutched it very harshly at some point. Narcissa had Jane roll over for a few moments while she concluded the manual examination on her back and spine. Thank Morgana that, except the shallow scrapes on her neck, Jane wasn't bleeding.

In addition to her neck, face, and breast, Narcissa also discovered that Jane's left wrist was swelling and paining her. "Did he twist your wrist, Poisson?"

Jane told her no, and that she didn't know how it had gotten injured. Her whole body was suffused with adrenaline, and while this served to offer a slight numbing of her aches, it had also dried out her mouth, and she kept asking Narcissa for some water.

"In a minute, Poisson," she told her. She wanted to look between her legs first. Well, she didn't _want_ to, anymore than she had wanted to touch one single bit of Jane's anatomy or to see her undressed, but it needed to be done.

Jane was still when Narcissa started to part her legs, but she revived when she felt the intrusion and started to sob and try to push her away again while she issued her cacophonous protests.

"Shh," Cissa hushed her.

But Jane didn't seem able to calm herself. "Please, Mrs. Malfoy. 'E's ain' doin' it. I's telled you's, 'e ain'."

Narcissa crawled upward toward her head and began stroking the side of her face that wasn't damaged. "Shh, Poisson, it's alright," she told her soothingly. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. I just need to see for myself. The Dark Lord will want to know for certain, Poisson. Shh," she gentled her, and finally succeeded in coaxing her into a calmer state.

When she returned to Jane's waist and pushed at her legs, Jane reluctantly allowed her to open them by slow degrees. When Narcissa finally had them enough apart to see the innards of her vulva, a hot sluice of molasses-slow trepidation purled through Cissa's chest and belly when she saw that it was all coated with blood. But as she leaned in further to find the source of all the bleeding, she realized it was just the natural color of the child's sex – a deep bloodred color exactly like that of her plump lips. It was odd. _Sort of pretty_, Narcissa thought for a moment. Then she mentally shook herself, disturbed by such a foreign, wayward idea. She forgot the random thought as soon she located the hymen and had made a thorough perusal and found no tears in the delicate tissue. Not a drop of blood.

A painful burden that she hadn't even been conscious of dissolved with an effluent release from within. The Malfoys might live to see another day just yet.

With a lighter heart, Narcissa threaded a clean nightdress over Jane's head and arms, held a cool drink to her lips while she sated her parched mouth, arranged the pillows and blankets around her for better ease, and cleaned and applied plasters to the shallow scrapes on her neck.

Right when she decided to check the lavatory for some of the muggle medisinine for the pain, Narcissa heard a sound of entreaty at the door.

"Enter!"

~}{~

The room looked like a demolished battlefield. Piles of splintered wood and plaster littered the wooden floor, paintings had been knocked from the walls and now lay overturned in disorder, singed and unraveled holes had been blasted in the large rug that lay the middle of the room, and the cottony viscera were pouring out of several rips in the luxuriantly upholstered furniture.

Severus took this all in as he walked to the bed where the invalid was resting. Jane looked terrible. She was sweating still and looked febrile. He saw that one side of her face was puffed and bluing. Her lips trembled violently.

At their approach her eyes cracked and clasped Severus. Immediately she reached out to him. Severus took hold of her quivering hand without hesitating.

He knew that to offer uninhibited affection to the muggle was to compromise his charade, but with Jane, unexpectedly, Severus was taking risks.

Potter was gone. His clandestinely-appointed, painfully average godson and the replica of his schoolboy, arch-nemesis was out of his reach now. But Jane - special, baffling Jane - was desperate and perhaps dying, and Severus was exhausted. Wherever this would end, no one could know. Scryers non-pending, Severus knew his end loomed near. Jane's unexpected presence, her existence, was calling to him inextricably, like a siren. It seemed that Lily hovered near to him in Jane's company and Severus wanted to show the Malfoys that even the second-in-command could spare some much needed mercy for a non-magical.

"Where does it hurt, Jane?"

"All over," she informed him.

"I'll get the paracetamol."

"No! The chemist, please. Get's somefink strong, Mr. Snape," she pleaded with a threadbare voice.

Severus gave her one, promising nod. "Do you need the hospital? Be honest Jane."

She began to issue the customary shake of her head, but then winced. Her ravaged neck was temporarily out of commission. "No," she whispered.

The Malfoys hovered by them, raptly observing this intense exchange.

Severus brought his pale hand to Jane's cheek and, bringing her heavily contrasted olive one to hold it in place, he felt her nuzzling into it. She sighed and Severus stiffened as she breathed, "Sirius." Involuntarily he retracted his hand, her eyes fluttered open, and then she went slack. It was sobering for him to understand that Jane still cherished the memory of a man that he had, always it seemed, reviled.

So lightly she didn't stir, Severus caressed a finger over her scrawny neck, intimately tracing the developing bruise. It was already a mangled mess, and he mentally shuddered to imagine how much worse it would look in the morning. He carefully ran his fingertip over the red, snaking vines where the veins had burst.

He turned to the Malfoys, who were somehow managing to look both haughty and chagrined.

"What happened here?"

Narcissa went around him and picked up a long leather strap from the nightstand. "It was made with this."

Severus took the belt and gingerly held it up to look at it. He didn't try to disguise his disgust as he scoured his eyes across it and then he rolled it up and stowed it in his pocket. "I think it would be for the best if I explain this to our master."

"Yes, I agree," Lucius was swift to agree.

"What injuries has she sustained?" he asked Narcissa. Deciding whether or not to take her to the hospital was the most pressing consideration.

"He must have struck It on the face, as you can see. He used a leather strap on Its neck, to strangle It. I don't know for how long or how many times. It's drifting in and out of consciousness, but nothing It's said has given me reason to worry that It's suffered damage from any prolonged deprivation of blood to the brain. There's also…" Narcissa's pale cheeks blossomed with blood as she said, "One of Its breast is red and bruising as well. He must have squeezed it quite hard at some point."

"Her breast!" he exclaimed.

"He had It mostly undressed when we interrupted him," she told him calmly.

"Did he rape her?" Severus wanted to know.

"He probably intended to. But he didn't."

"Are you positive?"

"I just saw Its hymen for myself. It's whole still."

The revelation that Jane was disrobed by her attacker added a new dimension of malice to this event. Before he could question Narcissa about this development any further she finished her delineation of Jane's injuries.

"And Its left wrist is a little swollen as well, but It was able to move it when I asked It to, so I doubt it's broken. Just sprained. That may have happened when It fell off the bed."

Severus turned his burning eyes back to the little person lying spent on the bed. Under normal circumstances he would prescribe a hospital visit without delay. But he knew that sending her there would be like signing the Malfoys' death warrant. As long as there was a chance of a recovery unassisted by hands-on muggle intervention, Severus was disposed to keep her here. The only way the Malfoys might be able to make amends to their master now, would be through nursing her back to health.

Severus pulled back the blanket and began to probe his fingers into her soft abdomen. Jane revived enough to see that it was only him touching her, and she remained quiet while he completed the inspection.

"Did he punch you anywhere, Jane?" Severus asked her.

"'Ere," she whispered through dry lips, and she waved her uninjured hand vaguely over the side of her swollen face.

"Do you think we should take It to the hospital, Severus?" Narcissa asked him, the hard edge of the question underpinned with fear.

"For now, no. But if she complains excessively of pain, or if you observe any setbacks in her recovery, inform me straight away, Narcissa."

Once Severus knew that she was going to make it through the night, the next order of business was getting to the 'whys'.

"How do you think this came to happen? Why was she assaulted?"

He watched Narcissa and Lucius – so composed and synchronized – communicating with each other with naught but their eyes. The exchange was brief but heavy, and apparently Lucius was the loser – or perhaps the winner, Severus wasn't sure – for he went to one the armchairs that was bleeding its stuffing and sat down in it.

Narcissa stepped toward him and began to lace her fingers through her hair. Severus had never witnessed this amount of discomposure in her as he watched her fidget.

"It was about a month ago now, Severus," she began.

Cissa attempted to delve into his bottomless eyes as she told him everything, but as usual she rapidly crashed into the hard wall of them.

Severus watched her as she told him about the events in the nook. Her sharp angular face betrayed her emotions, animating her in new, supple ways. Her light eyebrows shifted to lows and heights that Severus had never imagined were possible on her sculptured face as she tersely and susceptibly related their anger, their fear and helplessness. Observing Narcissa's expressive, emotional little story had transfixed him.

"It wasn't until Quirke began to raise my skirts with his wand," she confessed, cheeks flushed, eyes lowered, "that It decided to intervene."

This little revelation shook Severus out of his stupor.

"Intervene," he stated. It was a query that had no expectancy.

"It spooked them. Or something," was all she revealed. Her pale eyes were bewildered with a tincture of defiance.

"How?"

"We don't know." She held his eyes with a scathing look to put her sister's to shame. "It would never tell us. It…" And then she lowered her voice rather ominously, as though what she was saying was too indecent to be spoken at full volume. "Severus, It just knew things. Secrets. Obviously It has spied on them and knew what they were ashamed of. The look in Quirke and Baddock's eyes when It spoke to them…they were terrified of It, Severus."

Severus soaked up this information with unfaltering insouciance. "I see." He didn't actually see. Not quite.

Even five years ago Severus should never have had the inclination or enough authority to speak to Narcissa as he did now. If his position beside the Dark Lord wasn't so secure he would not have felt comfortable asking, "So, you're saying that Jane stopped these… jackals from what was heading in the direction of rape. Yet you're still calling him 'he' and her 'It'?"

Narcissa barely flinched. "He's a pureblood." Then, her eyes narrowing slightly, she practically whispered, "It's a cockroach."

Severus bore into her adamant eyes for a half minute before she broke the intense, searching look.

"Have you called the Dark Lord?" he asked.

As a shake of her head indicated a negative, another knock on the door sounded.

"Come in," Severus called, his eyes still on Narcissa.

Draco opened the door and joined them. He had his hands in the pockets of his pajama trousers and his shoulders were drooping with exhaustion. He looked positively haggard. His face was pinched and ashy with stress and he was staring at Jane's unconscious form with fear and loathing.

"Good…night Professor," he greeted Severus absently, his eyes on the bed. He turned to his mother. "It's Baddock."

Severus expected Lucius to join them, but saw that he was passed out; his blonde head slumped over the back of his seat.

"Is she… Did he… How did she…check out, Mother?" he asked delicately.

Hastening to give her son some hope, Narcissa told him, "He didn't succeed in raping her."

"Where's your auntie?" Severus asked.

Draco looked at him with raised eyebrows. Pretending he was holding a wand he made some specific wrist movements and succinctly and calmly explained with, "Crucio."

"Lucius!" Severus called.

Nothing would infuriate the Dark Lord more than if he arrived to find the patriarch of the family snoozing.

Lucius didn't stir.

Now Narcissa's consternation was pronounced as she went to his side and began to call his name and shake him. He murmured a bit and then tried to roll to his side and curl comfortably up.

For Merlin's sake, his world might be ending and he just wanted to nap through it.

"I'm sorry," Narcissa apologized to Severus, clearly ashamed of his behavior. "He was having trouble sleeping earlier so I gave him some Somniferus to help," she lied quietly. Everybody present knew she was lying, and she probably knew that Severus knew, but that had always been the way of the Malfoys. Appearances preserved at any cost.

Finally, just when Cissa feared she'd have to douse him with cold water _again_, he regained wakefulness and stood up, looking around blearily.

His contempt for his old friend etched in every line of his face, Severus said, "I'm going to the chemist now. Jane needs some stronger medicine to help manage her pain. I need you… or perhaps two of you to go to the cellar and pry Bellatrix away from her prey. The Dark Lord won't be at all pleased if he finds him too badly damaged when he arrives. He'll want to…question him."

The confusion clearing to a degree upon this announcement, Lucius gave him a sloppy, half-drunk nod.

"Narcissa, I believe I'll need your wand," Lucius said, crossing the room to his wife's side.

Severus sighed wearily. This wouldn't do, not at all.

"I'll go with you actually," Severus swiftly decided. "Narcissa, perhaps you'd better come with me, or you, Draco."

"I'm perfectly capable-" Lucius began.

"You," Severus cut in softly, caustically, "are perfectly drunk, Malfoy. And if you have any Sobriscendia about the manor I council you to drink some before I summon our master." Briefly sweeping Lucius with grave and supercilious eyes, he then asked, "How did Baddock gain access to this room? Why didn't intruder-repelling charms around the windows…_repel_ him? Or at least alert you three to the fact that a revenge-intent psychopath was lurking in here?"

"I don't know why!" Lucius yelled. "I cast some spells around the door!" He punctuated his remarks with some wild motions, waving his entire arms at the door and window and even at the muggle on the bed, as he continued, "Perhaps it's because that…that little freak is impervious to magic! Or has it occurred to you that Baddock might have some surprisingly advanced powers!?"

"Baddock is a complete imbecile who couldn't even matriculate into our ranks, Lucius," Severus impugned quietly. His own blithe stance and tone were perfectly calculated to make Lucius' unhinged rants and gestures seem all the more buffoonish. "I was his professor at Hogwarts. He was an idiot. A Hufflepuff idiot."

"Well, then perhaps it's because that…_thing_ is too abnormal!" the gesticulator rejoined.

"These pathetic extenuations don't suit you, Malfoy" Severus told him with careful conviction. "Now I suggest you find your Sobriscendia, and work out what you're going to say to our master when he arrives. I also advise you to drop the self-righteous façade. At least for the time being."

Severus headed for the door and called back, "Narcissa, lend Draco your wand while he accompanies me to pay the attacker and his auntie a visit. And be quick about it."

Without waiting for a response Severus left the room.

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**A/N: Once again, thanks to MirandNack, my shiny new beta!**

**Also, on a personal note, I've been meaning to give a long-overdue mention to my darling friend Erika, for all of her support and her advice, and just for liking my story. The absolute best thing that you've said to me so far was, "Will you just get over your damn insecurities already and finish writing the story so I can find out what's going to happen?" I love you Erika! Your one of the absolute best people in the world and I cherish you! Thank you for being my friend, and thank you for babysitting for me all week so that I didn't have to miss work!**

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**If you liked my chapter I would love to hear it. Please review.**


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